


A More Perfect Union

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Angst, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, Hurt Steve Rogers, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Knotting, M/M, Omega Tony Stark, Politics, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Sexual Frustration, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-16 15:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 154,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: Post 'Civil War', Tony is forced to make some very hard decisions. He'll do what it takes to protect his own, even if Steve hasn't been seen in months. He'll do what he has to do to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A note about names:
> 
> Omegas don’t have their own last names. There’s no such thing as ‘Mr’ or ‘Mrs’. Instead, when they are unmarried, they take the name of their sire. In Tony’s case, this is ‘From Stark’, because he is literally from Howard Stark. When he’s married, like when he is married to Obie, he is ‘Of Stane’. Marital status is distinguished by the ‘from’ and ‘of’ prefix in front of the name.
> 
> In this universe, the bill of rights has an 11th amendment that guarantees the right of alpha’s over omegas – it’s been subject to MUCH controversy, and forms a large part of this story. Just in case you wonder why I’m referring to an imaginary 11th amendment in the bill of rights you’ve never heard of.
> 
> In this universe, in order to have legal rights on par with betas, an omega can hold a ‘license’. This is a carry-over from the 1930s, when male omegas were drafted into the war effort, and it was decided that if you were able to fight for your country, you should also be able to drive/vote/own property etc. As it stands, any omega, male or female, can apply for a license when they turn 21. An alpha, however, can take this license away when married, as they hold control of the omega and their properties.
> 
> There is a rather long backstory for this – a prequel, kinda, that explains a lot. I might post it here if I ever finish it. In this universe, Tony was married to Stane when he was 17, right up until post-Afghanistan, when he found out Obie put a hit on him/built the suit/etc etc.
> 
> Tony is slightly younger in this AU -- about 35. Steve was defrosted a little earlier, so he's around 30, but none of that really makes a huge difference to the plot.
> 
> The timeline pretty much follows the normal MCU plot with some exceptions for world building.
> 
> This story isn't really focused on who was right -- I've actually changed the plot of CW a bit to fit in with the universe. Mostly, I want to focus on the characters, not just the big picture blockbuster stuff. I'm a lot more interested in their relationships, you feel?
> 
> Aaaand that's all I can think of, hope you enjoy!

It’s 6AM when the call comes through.  
   
Tony had been sleeping. Yes, he does that sometimes. Not all the time, not often, not often _enough_ (as Steve was always fond of telling him), but there are occasions – rare, sweet occasions – where his body decides he deserves the lie in.  
   
He thinks it’s part of his dream. The persistent theme from Jaws, the duh-nuh, duh-nuh duh-nuh duh-nuh, takes the form of a large shadow on airport tarmac. It’s not, obviously. It’s the ringtone he’s assigned to Secretary Ross’s personal number, just so he can remind himself that the man he’s dealing with is about as friendly as Jaws and twice as clever.  
   
At least, for a shark.  
   
 ~~Tony flaps his hand around the bed, feeling the space Steve used to –~~  
   
Tony flaps his hand around the bed, trying to feel for the space where he keeps his cellphone under an old pillow. He doesn’t find it in time and the tone rings out, but not to fear, Ross is calling back ten seconds later. Tony can almost _hear_ his frustration down the line.  
   
“Hello?’ He mumbles, groggy. “Do you know what time it is?”  
   
“Late enough. I need to talk to you.”  
   
“Yeah, I figured. Look, if this is about Kansas – “  
   
“What happened in Kansas?’ Ross interjects.  
   
Tony blinks. “Never mind.” Whoops. “Not important. Okay, so not about – what are you calling for? Can I reiterate it’s 6AM? And it’s a Sunday? It’s the Lord’s day, Ross, my God what the fuck is wrong with you?”  
   
“The Ambassador. He’s in DC tonight.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Which ambassador?”  
   
“You know which one.”  
   
“No, I don’t.”  
   
Tony hears Ross clip his irritation behind his teeth. “Well, read up on foreign policy on your trip over. He’s requested your company, very specifically. _You,”_ Ross says with mild disgust, like he can’t understand why anyone like the Ambassador to Fuckwhere would want an omega like Tony at the negotiating table. “He wants you.”  
   
“I’m the only Avenger left.”  
   
“Yeah,” Ross snorts, “right. Sure.”  
   
Grumbling, Tony swings his legs over the bed. The floor is cold, his bed is warm, and Ross has woken him up. Not nice. He frowns, fishing around his bedside cabinet for a headpiece, slotting it in his ear. “Well why else would he want me?” Tony says, not in the mood to antagonise. “Have you already said yes?”  
   
“I told him you’d be thrilled. And I would remind you that you’re in no position to refuse after the stunt you pulled.”  
   
“Get over it.”  
   
“Get me my prisoners back and I’ll get over it.”  
   
“I wasn’t the one who let them go.”  
   
“You’re the one who didn’t try to stop it.”  
   
Tony can’t _really_ argue with that logic. “I don’t know, Ross,” he says, blasé, padding his way through empty corridors till he reaches the kitchen. He’s naked, but that’s okay, because there isn’t anyone left to see him. “From what I hear, your time in the sky could be coming to an end pretty soon. You should give me a better reason to help.”  
   
He stands in front of his wide window, hand on hip, coffee brewing. He can hear Ross grumbling, hears him say something, muffled, to another person. Then he returns, just in time for Tony’s coffee to ‘ding’. “Can I explain something to you?”  
   
“Oh, Thaddeus,” Tony says, sickly sweet. “You know I love having a big, _strong_ alpha explain basic political concepts to me.”  
   
“How much hate mail do you get daily?”  
   
“What?”  
   
“How much hate mail do you get? I know you get it, my security team reads your mail.”  
   
“ _You’ve been reading my mail?”_  
   
“Just the fan-pieces. Or not-fan pieces, rather. Do you know how much people hate you?”  
   
Tony sucks his coffee. “I was aware that – my popularity has taken a slump, yes. But it’s not the first time, and it’s not like – “  
   
“Tony, I intercept death threats for you daily. People are very, very angry that an uppity omega has got in the way of their favourite Captain coming home.”  
   
“He was my favourite Captain first,” Tony mumbles, joking, but also not really joking.  
   
“I don’t care. And people are fickle. A year ago, they wanted Captain America brought to heel. The year before that, abortion was all the rage. Now all they care about is immigration. Accords are old news, you’re old news, people don’t remember that – they don’t fucking care people like Rogers are a menace to society. They’re idiots. It’s a hivemind of simple minded, uneducated, illiterates.”  
   
Tony raises his eyebrows, sip from his mug. “Yikes. Okay, you’re in a bad mood.” Ross isn’t prone to grand displays emotion, even anger usually eludes him. Tony isn’t used to him actually saying what he thinks. “Ellis’s approval rating is tanking, huh? That’s a shame. I guess you’ll just have to go down with the ship,” he says happily.  
   
He supposes it’s true. People don’t tend to focus on one thing very long. Once upon at time, safety measures for the Avengers seemed like the most important thing in the world. Now, not so much. No one cares. Out of sight and out of mind, and all they want is their Captain.  
   
Tony wouldn’t –  
   
It wouldn’t be so bad, if they could start again.  
   
“Tanking? No. They tanked a month ago. Right now we’re at rock bottom. The party is looking for an excuse to impeach, and do you think – _fuck,”_ Ross hisses, “what the fuck is that? You call that coffee? That’s scalding, are you trying to kill me? Make me another. Go. _Now.”_  
   
“Be nice.” Tony chides. Ross can be so mean to his aides.  
   
“Rock bottom,” Ross continues. “We have an election in a year. Do you _really_ think Ellis is going win?”  
   
“Put someone else on the ticket.” Tony is examining the label on the back of his water bottle; just how exactly can water be _smart?_ “I don’t care. Ross, you’re not giving me anything I don’t already know. I’m sorry you’re losing your job, that’s got to be harsh, but you’ll pick yourself up. And maybe – hey, we’ve done our job, right? The point was never to scare – scare Steve off permanently.”  
   
“I’m so glad you don’t care,” Ross says fiercely. “I know omegas can't separate their brains from their hearts, but if you could stop your lovesick pining for one second you’d see there’s more at stake than that.”  
   
“I’m not lovesick,” Tony says tiredly, quietly. “How could I love an alpha who left me to be with another alpha? Hey, you’re a war-man. How about you explain that to me?”  
   
“Let me explain _this_ to you,” (Ross really does love explaining things to him, Tony thinks). “Mr President replaces me with someone who controls you superheroes better, someone more sympathetic to your ‘plight’ to gain votes. Voters hate you. People who support superheroes hate you. President Ellis hates you. The person he picks to replace me will hate you, too.”  
   
“I’ll take my chances.”  
   
“Ellis, in a desperate bid to win votes, decides to take us both down. Or, just me, leaving you stranded and friendless. Let’s say your toyboy makes his way back home; who do you think he’s going to choose? The old omega, sloppy seconds, barren, who shot off his partner’s arm, or his young, fresh partner who is moved heaven and earth to save? Who do you think? _Who do you think?”_  
   
There’s a lot to be upset with in that sentence, but Tony picks on one. “I’m not barren,” he says, irritated. “I don’t know why everyone says I’m barren. Not having kids doesn’t mean I’m – “  
   
“You’re avoiding the question. Who would he choose?”  
   
“Look, Ross – “  
   
“Answer the question.”  
   
Tony tucks his chin against his shoulder, exposes the line of his neck, and he is so, so glad that in this unguarded moment there is no one to see him be so stupidly submissive to Secretary Ross of all people. “I don’t know,” he says, and it’s not a lie, not really.  
   
Ross snorts. “Right,” he says “sure. So you see, I’ll need you at dinner. We need to show our little initiative is working, and expanding into the Ambassador’s region would go a long way. Do you understand? You understand why this is important? Why you can’t – be you?”  
   
“You need to look like you actually do something, so you need to get the Ambassador on your side, and you need me to do it because he wants to see me and doesn’t actually want to talk to you.”  
   
“Sure,” Ross says patronisingly, “that’s it. Wear something pretty and don’t forget to smile.”  
   
“I hate – “  
   
Ross has hung up. A moment later, he’s texted through details of exactly where to meet, what time, and how much throat Tony should show.  
   
   
He hates HQ.  
   
Empty, except for lingering scents that don’t fade. Natasha’s an omega-heady orange and lemon, Clint’s the smell of fresh wood chippings. Steve’s, like fresh laundry and – and chalk, with rough paper, and grass, and blood, and so many other things that Tony can’t discern but that make his heart twist round his chest and threaten to choke.  
   
It wouldn’t be so bad if Ross was deposed, Tony thinks. Sure, people hate Tony, but they don’t need to like him. He doesn’t have to be liked. It would be nice to be loved, however. If Steve could come back, maybe Tony would be –  
   
Push it from your head, do what you need to do, in a few years time this will all be over.  
   
And where will Tony be then? Still single, still Iron Man? What space would Steve ever have for him if _did_ come back? Tony keeps the letter he sent folded up in his wallet.  
   
 _Keep fighting the good fight, Tony. I will be back for you. One day, we’ll look back on this and it will nothing, just one more fight in a line of fights that we’ve always had. And hey, it will be a good one to tell the grandkids, right?_  
  
 _Treat Ross with caution. I know you do, and I don’t need to tell you, but sometimes your headstrong. I love that about you. I love you. I miss you so ~~fucking~~ much._  
  
 _Thank you for doing this for me. You have no idea what this means, Tony. Thank you for letting me have this._  
  
 _Write to me soon. Switch out the phone often, okay? I don’t want Ross catching these._  
  
 _I love you. I’ll see you soon._  
  
 _Steve_  
   
But there had been no more letters.  
   
Not for Tony’s  lack of trying. It was too dangerous, Tony tells himself. That’s all. Far too dangerous is Ross caught on. Better safe than sorry. Tony will see Steve soon.  
   
(It has nothing to do with the fact that Steve chose to gallivant off to Wakanda rather than stay with Tony. No siree, that’s not it. Definitely not. You didn’t hear it from Tony, because that is _definitely_ not the reason.)  
   
Although if Tony is honest, yeah it rankles a bit. It’s selfish, maybe, but Tony is a selfish person. He gave up twenty years of his life to wash Obie’s clothes and cook his dinners, and all he got for it was an assassination attempt. And then there was the mess with Pierce.  
   
He had wanted a bit of happiness is all. Someone he could call his own. Someone who was kind, and he ate him out like a trooper. They had made so many plans, talked about children, and now –  
   
Tony was left, in an empty HQ, with one letter and no friends. And Steve had stopped trying to call. And he is hated, universally, while the man he helped escape lives in Wakanda with the alpha he chose over Tony.  
   
But he’s not bitter.  
   
He’s not.  
   
Tony should have learned a long time ago not to really on anyone but himself.  
   
See, they had reached an agreement. Tony, tearing his hair out, Steve on the verge of tears, back and forth, back and forth. Tony didn’t know what else he could do to make his alpha see; part of him, a nasty, vindictive side of him, didn’t understand why Steve wouldn’t just _do_ what he wanted, his only omega. Would it have been so hard to sign the Accords? Would it, Steve? Is it still worth leaving him, alone, with nothing but Ross and an old letter for company?  
   
But they had agreed. Ross would never allow compromise, not on his own watch. So, after the airport, after Tony had taken a few hits and Steve disappeared into the night with Barnes and Natasha, Tony flew to Siberia. Had to make it look good. Had to make it look like Tony was _committed._  
   
Steve had said goodbye. They had fucked in the dirty silo, freezing, nothing but their bodies to keep them warm, concrete rough on their skin. They had laid there as long as they could. All Tony could be was selfish. When the time came, and Steve boarded a quinjet with Barnes, Tony couldn’t look him in the eye. His alpha, leaving him to protect someone else. To help someone else. To save someone else, the way he had saved Tony.  
   
He comes back with Barnes’ metal arm. He throws it on the table. “For what it’s worth,” he had spat.  
   
   
The ambassador ignores him. Not surprising, Tony gets it: omegas should be seen, not heard. But why ask him here in the first place? He has better things to do, he has a life to get on with. Ross made it sound like the Ambassador requested him for something monumental.  
   
“And what do we think about – let’s say, in a hypothetical situation,” Ross is saying, barely touching his food, “a first response unit in the form of our initiative that _doesn’t_ need permission from your President so long as the threat is already known to the UN? For example, if we had the Chitauri return next year, it would be safe to assume – “  
   
The ambassador laughs raucously, nudging Tony in the ribs with his elbow as he throws back his arms. Spittle is flying from his lips. “Secretary Ross – you’re saying this on the assumption that you have any initiative to offer! What do you have? An android, an ‘Iron Patriot’, and one omega? It’s hardly such a combination to even bother beginning to rewrite our constitution to allow. The Captain – that’s a different matter. And the beta girl, the one with the – “ the Ambassador wiggles his fingers “ – the pink magic. Even the other omega – the redhead. They, surely, are more worth our time. Tell me why my President should treat with you and not them?”  
   
Ross is gritting his teeth. “Because they are criminals, and we are not.”  
   
“Legality has never bothered us before,” the Ambassador says simply, taking a bite out of a chicken leg, ignoring the cutlery placed for his use. “And besides, you’re talking like there’s something imminent. All that seems to have calmed down now, hasn’t it? It’s been a year, nothing except the boy that climbs those towers and a few miscreants in New York. Nothing that troubles me, or my fine nation.”  
   
Tony opens his mouth to tell the Ambassador that he’s an idiot, and he needs the Avengers for the same reason he has illegal nuclear weapons stockpiled in a bunker out east, but Ross glares at him across the table with a look that just _screams_ ‘shut up’.  
   
Meanwhile, the Ambassador’s fingers are brushing his thigh. Accident, probably. Right?  
   
“As I was saying,” the Ambassador continues, and his fingers seem to have found a home on Tony’s pants, “if there was a bargain. Some kind of deal. Your old heroes back, then perhaps my President would be more kind. Until then…” the Ambassador shrugs. “I’m not sure how much further I can go. How much further these talks can progress.”  
   
Ross kneads the bridge of his nose. “Mr Ambassador,” he says tiredly. “Surely, there is something we can do to – at least broach this with your president.”  
   
The Ambassador shrugs, and gently strokes his thumb against the inside of Tony’s thigh. “I don’t know,” he says, laboriously. “There’s just too much effort for a nil result. I can't go against my constitution any more than you can, you know.”

_We both know that's not true,_ Tony thinks internally.

Definitely feeling him up, great, thanks Ross. Tony is shooting daggers across the table and Ross is steadfastly ignoring him, which can only mean he _definitely knows_ why the Ambassador wanted Tony here tonight.  
   
“And what could I say to convince you?” Ross says quickly, detracting from Tony’s attempt to slap the back of the Ambassador’s head. “I can talk trade tariffs. I’m not – admittedly, I’m not in a position to hold the most sway right now, but if I could get your assurance – “  
   
“I’m thirsty,” the Ambassador interrupts, suddenly. “I want a drink. From Stark,” he says without turning round, hand still on Tony’s thigh. “I would like a drink, please.”  
   
Even Tony is shocked, momentarily. That is – astoundingly rude. Even for an alpha like the Ambassador, that is just – what is he, a waitress? It’s bad, it must be, because even Ross looks slightly speechless. Tony opens his mouth to speak, and Ross literally kicks him under the table. “Tony,” he says sweetly, sweating, because there is so much at stake and so little to gain, “please, fix the good Ambassador a drink would you?”  
   
The Ambassador squeezes his thigh once more, and let’s go, places his hands on the table. “Yes, From Stark, please. You shouldn’t have to hear what I say next. It’s – no good, for such sweet ears. Fetch me a drink, and we can move on to other topics, yes?”  
   
Tony sits there. _Anti-authoritarian,_ Steve is whispering in his ear. _It will be the death of you Tony!_ But he doesn’t move. He should. He needs to. But it’s so jarring that he, easily the cleverest person in this room, is reduced to fetching drinks.  
   
 _Don’t fuck this up, Tony._  
   
The long silence lasts what feels like forever. And then Tony stands, pushes in his chair. “Of course,” he says, plastering a winning smile on his face. “Would you like beer? Or something stronger?”  
   
The Ambassador wants whiskey, neat, and Tony spits in it.  
   
Returning, there’s music, loud, too loud, gratingly so. The room, which was once occupied by just the Ambassador, Ross, and Tony, is now filled with about six squirming omegas, dressed up in gold, glitter, diamonds and pearls. The Ambassador looks like he’s having a good time, and Ross is standing, clapping along with the music, smile so fake and so fixed that Tony almost feels sorry for him.  
   
Almost, but not really, because there’s no way this wasn’t planned. Ross would have arranged for this entourage before he called Tony this morning – he _knew,_ he had planned this orgy, and he had invited Tony anyway. Why? To pretend he has any power? Or maybe just to save money on a waitress. Tony’s drink is forgotten, and the Ambassador is blowing champagne of an omega-girl’s tits, pouring it down her throat.  
   
It’s just humiliating, is all. Tony should be used to it.  
   
He’s not.  
   
The Ambassador turns to him for the first time, grinning. “Would you like to join them?” He asks. “I’d love to see you in jewellery. Jewellery, and nothing else.”  
   
Tony smiles shortly. “I’m afraid that will cost you more,” he says, bluntly. _Fuck you,_ he thinks. _Fuck you, and fuck anyone who thinks like you. I’d kill all of you if I could._  
   
“But you have a price?” The Ambassador enquires, lazily. “Interesting.”  
   
He leaves, joins the dancing omegas, a fat old man among men and women who are paid to smile and call him alpha. He waves his hand, starts up the music again, and catches one of the boys on his lap, sucking a line down his throat. It turns Tony off his food entirely.  
   
“He wants to see you,” Ross murmurs, still applauding like a trained seal. “One on one.”  
   
One on one. Oh. _Oh._  
   
“Tell him that’s not possible,” Tony whispers out the side of his mouth, smiling brightly. “How about you tell him that’s not how we do things in America.”  
   
“Please,” Ross says, eyes fixed forward, locked in a grin. “Consider it a favour.”  
   
“I don’t owe you anything.”  
   
“You would like _me_ to owe _you_ something though. Wouldn’t you?”  
   
Tony would. “Did you know?” He snaps. “Did you know this is why he wanted me here today?”  
   
On the floor, two O’s are now pawing at each other, swaying in time, flush and sweating. Ross looks away, almost embarrassed, and Tony remembers overt sexuality seems to disgust him. Fucking prude.  
   
“Does it matter? He said he wanted to see you. I know men like him don’t ask to see omegas for their conversation. Especially when they look like you,” he adds dismissively.  
   
“What the fuck – “ Tony is too loud. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He corrects, hissing.  
   
“It means we’ve got a chance here. I know it’s nothing you haven’t done before. Oh please, don’t give me that look,” Ross scoffs, “you were practically throwing yourself at me when we were pushing the Accords through. You’ll sell yourself for scraps and not lose sleep over it all.”  
   
Tony wants to explain there’s a fundamental difference between offering his body in exchange for Steve’s safety and literally being sold off like cattle to fat, old, foreign alphas. “If this deal falls through, what do you lose?”  
   
The necking omegas collapse, legs entwined, and another comes to join them. Too much skin. “Everything,” Ross grits, not once looking at Tony.  
   
“Then as far as I’m concerned – “  
   
Ross grabs Tony’s wrist, tight. He leans close, grin still rictus, eyes still smiling, focused on a spot on the wall, music drowning out the rumble of his throat. “If I lose everything,” he breathes, “I’m taking you down with me.”  
   
Tony waits a beat, then laughs, as if Ross has said something very funny. He resumes clapping. He swallows.  
   
“I’m not a poodle, Ross. And I’m not a prostitute.”  
   
“Yes you are,” he replies dismissively. “And you’ll never by anything more for men like him. I’ll owe you, Stark. That means something.”  
   
“That means _nothing_ coming from you.”  
   
“I could just force you, you know. He wants you tied up anyway, he was very explicit about that. Hell, he’d probably get a kick out of it. Why don’t you give him what he wants?”  
   
“It’s the principle of it, Ross. Why did you call me here? Was it to just – embarrass me?” Tony is furious, and it’s almost reaching a point where he’s not afraid to let it show. “Your organised a fucking _orgy!”_ Tony hisses, almost apoplectic. “You gathered together a fucking troop and – “  
   
Ross hand settles on the back of his neck. He probably doesn’t mean to brush him like that, but he does, and Tony’s head goes wavy. Tunnel vision, gold dancing omegas, aren’t they all so pretty, Tony would just love to wear gold and dance like that, he would be so pretty too. Mmm, yes he would, and everything would be –  
   
“Listen to me,” Ross is saying quietly, conspiratorially, leaning close. Obie used to hold him like this. One arm slung around his shoulders, the other hand holding a cigar, leaning in close, clammy and _notgood._ “We can make this work, you and I. All I need is your support on this one thing. Tony, there’s – something happening. And I can give you lead. A head-start, if you will. Are you listening to me? Are you hearing this?”  
   
Tony blinks, stumbles, pushes Ross away and rubs the back of his neck. He can scent himself, and he smells of _shameshameshame._ “You should know better,” he mumbles, looking at the floor, “it’s not polite to touch there.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Ross says, near exasperation. “Tony, did you hear what I was saying? I’m giving you a lead, here. I’m telling you that something is happening, the President is thinking about initiating some new legislation, and – it’s important for you. In fact, in involves you. So, here’s my offer: you do this for me, and – and I give you a headstart.”  
   
The Ambassador has stopped pretending to even be interested in what they have to say. He’s removing the golden panties of a male-O with his teeth. “I don’t want that to be me,” he says, miserably, half-defeated, because doesn’t even know why he’s holding back. Ross is offering him a grapevine, the first since Steve broke into the Raft, and it’s not like it’s cheating if your alpha doesn’t give a fuck about you. It’s not cheating if your alpha leaves you for someone else, right? Another alpha, no less, and fuck, how will Tony ever live it down –  
   
These people don’t respect him as it is. If saving New York from nuclear annihilation doesn’t swing their opinions, nothing else will.  
   
Except sex. Sex, and money. Which Tony happens to have in spades.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this scent contains some pretty heavy dubious consent. Obviously, Tony consents, but he’s not happy about it. You'll know when the scene occurs; please skip if you're not comfortable!

“Here,” Ross says. He hands him a large flat box, covered in ribbon. “A gift for you. From the ambassador.”  
   
“Are you joking?”  
   
“I wish I was,” he says grimly, and Tony almost believes him. “He said he wants you to wear it tonight.”  
   
Tony winces. Is that too far? It feels like it might be too far. He’s not actually a prostitute. He’s supposed to be at the forefront of the modern revolution. How many times has Steve Rogers been propositioned by foreign ambassadors and handed lacy lingerie?  
   
“If it helps, I don’t think he’ll last long,” Ross says, like he’s trying to be encouraging. “And these things are expensive. And besides, he probably wants you to just – lie there,” Ross winces, like the thought is distasteful.  
   
Tony slides out the ribbon and shuffles open the box. Yeah, it’s all very expensive for a tiny piece of fabric. “You think this is worth $300?” Tony asks, holding up the barely-there thong and whirling it round his finger.  
   
“Stop that,” Ross frowns, irritated. Tony notes: he doesn’t like this being thrown back in his face. Interesting. Maybe this _does_ actually bother him more than he lets on.  
   
“C’mon, don’t be a prude,” Tony smirks, but there isn’t much energy behind it. The Ambassador – or more likely, the Ambassador’s poor aide – has included a silken blindfold, leather restraints, a ball-gag. “Kinky.” Tony dead-pans.  
   
“He’s given my people a time. I’ve offered the Virginia house for the job. You think you can make it there for 22:30?”  
   
“Why, we need set up time?” Tony is distracted. That’s a big gag, he thinks, squeezing it in his hand. Is that supposed to fit in his mouth?  
   
“If he wanted you to speak, he’d ask you for dinner,” Ross says dryly. “Are you listening to me?”  
   
“22:30. Heard you. Loud and clear.”  
   
He’s distracted. Is this cheating? Doesn’t this, technically, count as some form of cheating on Steve? Okay, so Steve hasn’t got in touch with him in months, and yes, the pain Tony feels is infinite and never-ending, a cascade of longing and pure regret mixed with _why couldn’t you be better?,_ but really, does that pain count if Steve never actually called the whole thing off?  
   
“ – ony. Tony. From _Stark.”_  
   
Tony jerks. “What?” He snaps, glaring up at Ross. Was he always so tall? “What do you want?”  
   
Ross is holding out his hand. For a scary half-second, Tony thinks he wants Tony to take it. Then he realises there are two little white pills in the centre of his palm, neat and dry. “These help,” he says, clearing his throat. “At least, I have it on good authority.”  
   
Tony doesn’t take them. He narrows his eyes. “What will they do?”  
   
“Make it easier. They, uh,” Ross is flushing, “they facilitate the – the production of… fluid. Which is to say, if you find it hard, they’ll make it easier.”  
   
God, Ross is such a prude. He’s probably picturing Tony, ass-up, wetter than Niagara, and is getting pent up that there’s nothing he can do about it. “Wow,” Tony says, lacklustre. “I get it. The open the floodgates in my ass. And to think, I was just going to lie back and think of your face to really get the juices flowing.”  
   
“Shut up,” Ross snaps, but there isn’t much heat there. “That isn’t funny, it’s disgusting.”  
   
“Sure, Thaddy,” Tony says, taking the pills. “It’s not like you don’t think of me.”  
   
“I don’t – “ Ross snatches his hand away in fury. “I don’t think of you at all, Stark. Contrary to what you believe, at any given time, I am more likely to be thinking about _bacteria_ than I am your effect on my life.”  
   
Ross isn’t a bad liar, but he’s overcompensating. “Sure,” Tony says tiredly, “whatever you say. Can I go now? It’s gonna be a long night. I want some beauty sleep.”  
   
“Go,” Ross barks. “I will see you tonight. 22:30, don’t forget. And for fuck’s sake, don’t ruin this for us.”  
   
“For us?”  
   
“For you.” Ross corrects.  
   
   
He makes it Ross’s home in Virginia for 22:00. See, he can be punctual. Ross hands him some scotch, tells him to palm the pills, and then he introduces Tony to an omega, one of his staff.  
   
“Lisa is going to help you set up,” he says, delicately. “I thought – it might be more appropriate.”  
   
“Sure,” Tony says, downing the rest of his glass. “I’m sure she’s a lot less likely to sample the goods. Unless she’s into that. You’re not into that, are you sweetheart?”  
   
“Do you have to take every opportunity to be disgusting?” Ross asks, nose wrinkled.  
   
“Ross, you’re pimping me out to an Ambassador for your own pure political gain, do _you_ have to take every opportunity to be so fucking conniving, greasy, and disgusting?” Tony says this sweetly, looking up at Ross from under lashes. _Picture me,_ he wills, _go on, you know you want to._  
   
“Lisa,” Ross says, turning away discreetly. “Please, take Tony to the bedroom. Make sure he’s comfortable.”  
   
“Of course,” Tony smiles, saccharine, sharp. “Wouldn’t want this to uncomfortable for anyone, would we?”  
   
   
The panties are riding up his ass-crack, and it doesn’t feel good. He shifts, has to, but they’ve got him all stretched out, arms attached to the bed frame, knees caught in some kind of spreader. Obie wasn’t kinky, not like this. Not in a way that took _planning._ And Steve – well, Steve was very much a natural kind of guy. Spontaneous. Mmm. Yes he was.  
   
He worries the gag in his mouth, tries to pretend like he hasn’t drooled all over the fur comforter. Ross said no more than half an hour – it’s been more than that. Drugs kicked in about ten minutes ago – he feels all loose, more wet than he should be given the circumstances. It’s not like a heat, nothing like that, but he doesn’t have to pretend to enjoy it. His body slicks itself, Tony feels it dampening the thin silk between his cheeks, slipping down his balls and staining his inner thighs. He’s hard, but that’s not intentional. It’s not even the drugs. He has a kink, okay, this is a kink, something about this situation has always been a turn-on for him and he’s not going to think too hard about it or else –  
   
He hears the laughter tumbling down the corridor, and his stomach does a swoop. This could be it. He chews on the gag, pushes back his hips, tries to flatten himself against the bed and spread himself as much as he can. Let’s make this easy, let’s make this quick. Give the good Ambassador what he wants.  
   
He’s perfectly aware of the view he’s presenting: face down, ass up, legs spread, red cloth stuck between his cheeks, wet with slick. Open and held there, ready for the taking. He hopes Ross doesn’t linger, but then the drug also means he doesn’t really care.  
   
He thinks of Steve.  
   
Steve with the soft hands. Steve with the long fingers. Steve with the gentle touch, with the pretty eyes, with the laughing mouth. Steve who would kiss him inside his thighs, behind his ears, under his chin. How long has it been? Tony hasn’t been touched in a long, long time.  
   
Oh, Steve. Why did you have to go?  
   
The laughing is loud, suddenly, drunken. The doors to the bedroom are open. “And here we are,” Ross slurs. It’s fake. Tony knows it. He can just _tell_ that Ross isn’t really drunk, but he’s acting it. “As promised. One – one From Stark. I’m sure you can smell he’s very excited.”  
   
The Ambassador is wheezing, either with laughter or excitement. “Good man,” he coughs, slapping Ross on the back. Tony can’t see it, obviously, but hears it. He hears Ross choke slightly, like the Ambassador’s packed a bit too much punch. Good. “For this – well. For this, we can talk. You’ve made me very happy tonight, Mr Secretary of State. Very happy indeed.”  
   
He doesn’t join Tony immediately. He lingers, helping himself to something from the bar. He seems to sit for awhile, then maybe stand at the window. Time is ticking. Tony is uncomfortable.  
   
He twists his wrists, tightens his toes. He has to shift slightly, because the position is so awkward. He breath is wet behind the gag, heavy through his nose. He hears footsteps; clunky feet on wood, then on the carpet near the bed. He feels the Ambassador stand near him, but he doesn’t touch. Hears his breath.  
   
Tony jerks. Fingers are tracing their way up his rib cage, light. A hand smoothes across the flat of his stomach, a large circle. Tony huffs. He hates that he can’t see.  
   
Pressure on his hips. Nails scratch little patterns into the skin beneath the thin waistband of the panties. They hook themselves under the scrappy line. Pull down, so they rest just beneath the curve of his ass. The Ambassador inhales sharply; “Beautiful,” he breathes, then lands a sharp slap across the centre of Tony’s ass.  
   
He bucks, yelps, because it was _hard_ and because he didn’t see it coming. The Ambassador’s fingers are thick, and Tony makes a stupid noise behind the gag. “Good,” he preens, “that’s good. You are so pretty, did you know that? Sitting there at dinner, so refined. All that time, I just wanted to bend you over that table, take you raw. Let all those big important men know exactly what you are.”  
   
Yikes. Okay, Mr Ambassador, whatever you want. Tony wonders if he could speed his along. As best he can in his get-up, he arches his back, wiggles slightly, chewing on the gag. The Ambassador slams his fingers, deep, drags them back out, smoothes his thumb around the rim of Tony’s hole, then wipes his hand on Tony’s back. “Pretty boy,” he says, “so good for me.”  
   
Mmm hmm, Tony is. He really is. He’s so good. Let’s move this along, Mr Ambassador.  
   
“If I had it my way,” the Ambassador grunts, clambering laboriously onto the bed (Tony feels it dip), “I would have all of your kind kept like this. All tied up, pretty, just ready for us, all the time. I think you would prefer it, wouldn’t you From Stark?”  
   
_Yes,_ Tony thinks, _yeah, of course I would love to spend my entire life in bed being rammed by fat old men. Oooh, oh yeah, the thought just makes me so hot for you, Mr Ambassador. How is it that you, finally, are the alpha to convince me civil liberties are wrong?_  
   
Tony just nods his head on the pillow, and the Ambassador practically shits himself with excitement. Tony can scent _lustlustlustLUST_ and _breedBREEDBREED,_ and although he feels something like a zero sum of attraction to the man his body responds accordingly. It makes this easier.  
   
But the Ambassador doesn’t touch his cock. He braces his hands on Tony’s hip, his back. “Make noise,” he groans, fumbling with himself, trying to position in the right place. “I want to hear you try. Try and speak.”  
   
Tony rolls his eyes. “I want to fucking kill you,” he says behind the gag, moaning. “I want to eviscerate you. Please, I want to literally run you over again and again and again.”  
   
The Ambassador moans dramatically, pumping. Funny, Tony can barely feel it. “That’s right, pretty bitch,” he’s panting. “Keep talking.”  
   
“Please, fuck my ass,” Tony sighs, gag garbling his words. “Keep going, your dick is so small I can’t even feel it. Oh, yeah, fuck me with that toothpick dick, oh yeah.”  
   
The Ambassador slaps his ass again, going harder. The bed rattles. It’s barely been two minutes, and Tony thinks he might blow. _Good. Get this over and done with, wham bam thank you ma’am._  
   
The Ambassador spits something in his mother tongue, comes, pulls out, and lets it drip down Tony’s thighs. He breathes a sigh of relief: finished. There. Wasn’t so hard, was it Tony? Barely ten minutes, all things considered. Not too bad at all.  
   
Tony isn’t quite sure what happens now. The Ambassador slumps. Tony wonders if he’s had a heart attack. He hopes he has. But eventually he rolls, bed dipping, and steps heavily to the bar.  
   
Time goes past, then, without the Ambassador saying a word. Could be looking at his phone, reading a book, checking his fucking star sign, he doesn’t talk to Tony. He feels sticky, he feels dirty. He wants a shower. He knees hurt, the space between his thighs hurt, his back hurts, this position is not comfortable. He wonders if the Ambassador would mind if he lay down straight. He decides against it; too risky.  
   
The Ambassador is up and moving again, shuffling round the room. It sounds like he’s trying to put on some pants. Probably too drunk and too loose to do it properly. Tony waits it out. Will he let Tony down? Will Ross? Will the aide – Lisa, will Lisa help? Tony wishes he hadn’t been so mean to Lisa, but it was a stressful situation.  
   
“You didn’t come,” the Ambassador says, grunting. “Too bad. Next time, maybe.” _In your fucking dreams._  
   
The Ambassador’s fingers poke him, slip inside slightly, rub around his rim. The come is cold, sticky, dried on his skin, but inside it’s still warm. The Ambassador collects it on his fingers.  
   
He’s by Tony’s head. He’s holding his hair. He’s pulling back his head. _Wait,_ Tony tries to say, _hold on, this wasn’t agreed!_ But he’s blinded and gagged and even if he wasn’t he doesn’t think the Ambassador would care. He kicks his feet slightly, pulls as much as he can without ripping hair from his scalp. _No, wait. Wait, hold on, this wasn’t agreed, this sort of thing needs to be agreed, you can’t just –_  
   
The Ambassador smears himself over Tony glands, the two sensitive lumps at the base of his neck, opposite, equal. He instills his scent in Tony’s body. Tony wants to cry. _Steve,_ he thinks, tries to scent him underneath the fresh fresh spend, but it’s so faint he can only catch a glance before it’s lost to him. _Steve. Steve. Why did you have to go, Steve?_  
   
The Ambassador lets his head fall to the pillow. He doesn’t undo his bindings. He lets himself out.  
   
   
Tony jerks awake.  
   
He’s still tied up. Hands stretched in front of him, legs spread, gagged, blinded. He must have fallen asleep, but he has no way of telling the time, or even if the Ambassador is still there. He huffs, tugs at the restraints, but he’s still stuck tight. He’s wet, all the way down his thighs, slick and spend and drool for all he knows, and he’s twisted at some point so his hips lie on their side, legs still spread unnaturally by the bar.  
   
He might start to panic, but there’s a hand on the small of his back, stilling him. “Easy Stark,” Ross sighs, “you’re alright.”  
   
He is _not_ alright, not at all. This isn’t what we _said,_ Ross, this isn’t what you promised. He’s saying all these things behind the gag, trapped at this ridiculous angle, and he _can’t. Get. His. Hands. Free._ He’s cursing, and the stupid string-cheese panties are still caught around his thighs, and he feels disgusting, and the last thing he needs is the _Secretary of State_ to be be laughing at him while he –  
   
Ross’s hands are on his thighs, and Tony stills, because for a moment he thinks – he fears – he’s so helpless like this –  
   
The bar is lifted from between his legs and Tony can finally, finally, close them. He groans, slumps down, because he gets it. Ross is here to let him out. He lets himself go slack, because he’s exhausted, and because the next thing Ross removes is the blindfold.  
   
He’s wearing a polo shirt and shorts, like he’s dressed for golf. Tony’s sire used to wear the same thing and – not a great comparison, right now. He’s very clinical about it all; his hands don’t linger on the back of Tony’s neck when he fiddles with the gag, he doesn’t spend too long undoing Tony’s wrists. As soon as he’s able, Tony is sitting up, kicking the crappy panties down to his ankles, bundling them up and throwing them across the floor. He’s shivering, he realises, probably the come-down from the drug, and he drags the comforter – stained with his spend, stained with his drool, stained with various bodily fluids – around himself. “What?” He spits, vitriolic, because Ross is sitting on the side of his bed. “You want a turn too? Want to take a spin next? Why not, everyone else has.”  
   
He’s panting. Shoulders heaving. Ross just sighs. “Whatever you did, it worked,” he says eventually. “The Ambassador was happy.”  
   
Tony stares at him. A beat. “Really?” He asks, tentatively.  
   
“Sure. I won’t repeat what he said, you don’t want to hear that. Anyway, job well done.” Ross slaps the bed, stands, brushing his hands like he’s done all the hard work. “My aid has you booked in for some – I’m not sure what it is, actually. Some kind of massage, manicure?” Ross waves a hand. “I don’t know. But she booked an overnight stay. You’re welcome to get some rest, make yourself at home. I’ll have my driver take you over. It’s all on me.” Ross sounds pleased with himself.  
   
Is that it? Is he just – leaving? “Wait,” Tony blurts, reaching forward, ignoring the cramping twinge in his muscles. “Wait, you said – you said you’d owe me.”  
   
“I did,” Ross says carefully. “What did you have in mind?”  
   
Tony blinks. “Nothing,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “Nothing, for now. I just – you owe me. You know that.”  
   
Ross considers for a moment; sucks his lip. “Okay,” he says, “okay. What if I had some information you might want to know.”  
   
“Depends what it is.”  
   
Ross sits himself on the bed, and Tony tugs the comforter up to cover his chest. _Tooclose!!!!_ His brain is screaming, but Tony lets the rational part of him see it out. Ross is sitting right next to his leg, so he draws it up against him, rests his chin on his knee. Cautiously, he scents the air; Ross smells of nothing but gunpowder, coffee, sweat. Maybe a hint of _lustlust,_ but that’s to be expected, almost reassuring. Surprisingly, there’s actually a lot of _pitypity,_ mixed with _pooromega._ It just makes Tony self-conscious. He holds himself closer together.  
  
“I’m going to warn you: I can’t help you with this. I won’t. I’ll lend support to the bill when the time comes, what you want be damned.”  
   
Tony lets concern cloud his mind. “What are you talking about?” He murmurs. “What bill?”  
   
Ross looks away. “Something bipartisan would do wonders for the President’s reputation.”  
   
“Okay,” Tony says slowly.  
   
“Something that – something that no God-fearing alpha would ever vote against. Could never vote against, because it goes against their literal ethical code. Against the constitution, against – you get the picture.”  
   
“Bipartisan action good for president, yes, I get that. Reach the point, would you?”  
   
Ross waves a hand. “I don’t expect you to understand fully. You know that there was a surge in independent support at the last election?”  
   
“Yeah, I was aware,” Tony says dryly. “I take a break from my pious pursuits to occasionally dabble in current affairs. The Puritans.”  
   
“Traditionalists,” Ross corrects. “They prefer traditionalists.”  
   
“I’ll call a spade a spade, Ross.”  
   
He sighs, looks away. “Well,” he says, “it’s hard running a functioning government when so many of your base has been snapped up by our more – old fashioned friends.”  
   
Old-fashioned isn’t the word. When Tony was a kid, there were only a few well known colonies. Lots of families that lived in packs, but mostly kept themselves to themselves. Now, it seems like every city has a colony somewhere inside their walls, sometimes more than that. They’re more common down south, and Tony’s never really mixed with the Os they produce. Quiet, pious, reserved, _submissive._ Baby machines, cranking out one, two, three, seven, _twelve_ babies at a time before their bodies scream ‘no more!’  
   
“It’s just an amendment to current legislation. In fact, it’s right there in the Bill of Rights, there’s no debating it, and – and it’s been – I mean come on, the war finished seventy years ago – “  
   
“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.”  
   
Ross glares at him. “The President,” he says, “is proposing that an alpha has complete discretion over an omega’s license.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s – what’s your point? It’s been that way for years. Obie controlled my license. Am I wasting my favour here?”  
   
“No,” Ross says, like he’s explaining something to a five year old, “Stane _didn’t_ have control of your license. Not _legally._ Yes, obviously, he held it, but that’s different. He couldn’t stop you from getting one.”  
   
“But he could stop me from having one. And he did.”  
   
“That’s not the point. You have a job, you pay taxes, you – you drive a suit around. He didn’t stop you.”  
   
“Right, but he could have. And he _did,_ remember? And, I’m telling you if I had tried to take it to court he would have beat me so hard my face fell off my head. The law is one thing, reality is another.”  
   
Ross’s scent is seething slightly; interesting. He doesn’t like _that,_ not at all. “Fine,” he says shortly, “semantics. That’s not the point. As it stands, as an unmarried omega, you can do as you please, and that’s fine, correct?”  
   
“Yes.” Tony says, even though Ross is really missing the finer details. “Yes, I can, _mostly,_ do as I please.”  
   
“Okay,” Ross says, “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now, what the President is proposing, is to stop that.”  
   
Tony stares, because maybe he’s misheard. Ross wouldn’t be so blasé about – about this, would he? No he must have misheard, that’s all. Hasn’t understood what Ross is trying to say. “What?” He asks, confused, because there’s no way – nah, no, definitely not –  
   
“What we’re proposing is that, you know, for the safety of all omegas, especially those who are unmarried and without an alpha, we just – “  
   
“What?”  
   
Ross frowns. “Would you let me finish? Don’t interrupt me.”  
   
“But I don’t understand,” Tony laughs, smiles. “You’re saying – what, that unmarried omegas… can’t have a license? But that’s bizarre, right? That’s – “  
   
“No, actually that’s exactly what we’re saying. Good, you picked that up fast.”  
   
“No,” Tony bites back, “I don’t think I have. I think what you’re trying to say is – “  
   
“Jesus Tony I’m trying to do you a solid. Could you be grateful?”  
   
“Be – be _grateful?_ Are you – “ red, hot heat is fuzzing Tony’s head. “Are you _joking?_ Are you fucking – “ Tony throws off the comforter, sits up straight. “No. No, Ross, that’s not – I _need_ a license. Ross I _need_ a license. I can’t – I won’t marry,” and it’s like air has been sucked from his lungs. “Christ no. Ross I _can’t_ marry not when – you don’t have anyone else! You don’t have a single other person who can hold your initiative – “  
   
“Well yes,” Ross says, rather smugly. “That’s the point.”  
   
“What do you mean – that’s the point? That’s the – “  
   
Ross does look sympathetic. “Look,” he says, “you’re not liked. We’ve run the data. In the heartlands, you’re hated. Big industrialist – that’s not polling well in blue collar states. And the whole liberated omega – that’s _hated_ deep south. Actually, it’s hated in the north, too. In fact, the only place you have healthy opinion poll is New York and California. A lot of people, they want to see _you,_ specifically, you know. Taken down a notch or two.” Ross shrugs, like that means nothing. “We don’t need two men in flying suits, anyway. We have Rhodes for that now.”  
   
“You’ve said – you said, people are fickle, people are – “ Tony laughs, hysterical. “People forget! In a year’s time people will have forgotten, and this will all be done, and we don’t need to – “  
   
“Look, it’s not personal,” Ross sighs. “I’m telling you because – you have a chance to – “ Ross looks at him, straight in the face. “You have a chance to – find some other way. Or maybe, some other place.”  
   
What is Ross telling him? “This _is_ personal,” he cries, “this is absolutely, 100% personal. You think I’m the only unmarried omega who likes to drive a car? Who likes to vote? It won’t just be me, there are – “  
   
“86% of omegas over the age of thirty are married. 72% of them already have at least one child, most have more. There are certain towns down south where you’d be hard pressed to find an unbound omega anywhere. Marry them off at 16 whether they like it or not. Look, Tony, the bill will pass. It’s not up for debate. Don’t ask me to change it because I can’t.”  
   
“Then why have you – “ Tony can’t do this. Already, a thousand scenarios are running through his head. Married off to another alpha who makes him iron his shirts and make his dinners and rub his feet and bend over to be fucked like he’s nothing but a cock-holder, who makes him say ‘yes alpha’ and ‘no alpha’ and ‘whatever you want alpha’, _no,_ never again, never ever again will he be made to –  
   
“Why did you tell me?” Tony says bitterly. “Why even bother telling me at all?”  
   
“Because, like I said,” Ross says quietly, voice low, “there might be – other places for you. Maybe, if you’re quick, there are – places you could go.”  
   
Tony narrows his eyes. “So this is it, huh. This is why. You want me out of the picture. Gone. Where to, Ross? You want to pack me in a fedex box and ship me off to Canada?”  
   
“I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m tipping you off. In a month’s time, in two, it won’t be so easy for you any more. You’ll be a ward of the state, unless – do you have any family?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Fine. You’ll be a ward of the state. And the state won’t be granting you a license to illegally fly out to Canada, if that was your intention.”  
   
“I didn’t say that. You said that.”  
   
“I didn’t say anything,” Ross sighs airily.  
   
Tony swallows. He loosens his shoulders, tips his chin slightly to the side. “Ross,” he says, purposefully quiet, eyes cast down, pulling out all the stops. “You have to help me.”  
   
Ross’s scent goes stale, then hot, then the desperate sort of _shitshitshit_ when alphas are trying to suppress lust, that awkward embarrassed scent.  “I, uh,” Ross clears his throat, gathers himself and stands. “I have to do no such thing.”  
   
“Ross I can’t – “ he catches his wrist, holds him for as long as he dares. It’s the first time he’s ever willingly touched him, ever. “Marry.” Tony laughs, shakes his head. “That would be – you didn’t know me, back then. But I wasn’t – “ Tony bites off. “I know you have pull,” he says quietly, and Ross is already shaking his head, trying to get away. “I know if you said something to the President – “  
   
“The President hates me,” Ross snarls. “After the Raft, you think he puts any stock in my ability? This deal the with Ambassador brings me back up to neutral but I am in _no_ place to be making demands on major policy. Do you understand? _Do you understand?”_  
   
Tony lets his head fall back, exposes the entire line of his neck.  
   
“That’s – stop that,” Ross mutters, uncomfortable. “You don’t need to do that, I didn’t mean – to frighten you. I’m sorry,” he relents. “It would take a miracle for me to get in Ellis’ good books. Something really spectacular, and, as it stands…”  
   
“I understand,” Tony says quietly, although he doesn’t. “Thank you for the information,” he lies.  
   
Ross nods. “Good.” He says. “Good. I’m glad you see it that way. For what it’s worth – “ Ross seems to think second, and stops. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you soon. Good job last night.”  
   
“Right,” Tony says dispassionately. “Thanks.”  
   
   
Tony is back at HQ a day later.  
   
He smothers himself in what’s left of Steve’s clothes. Sweaters, briefs, socks. He sleeps in Steve’s bed, tries to push the scent back into his body. He lies curled under the duvet, staring at the screen of the phone.  
   
_Not good here,_ he’s written. _Need help._  
  
And then a set of coordinates, a time, a date. Tony will leave here tonight, legal or not.  
   
   
He can’t bring anything with him. The suit won’t allow that. He best bet is to fly across the border; he can make it in less than an hour if he’s efficient.  
   
He doesn’t give any thought to what he’s leaving behind. Hopefully, Steve – or someone – will be there to greet him. If not, it doesn’t matter. He can make his own way. There are people he knows who will help.  
   
Night cold and clear, mid-November. Trick is to fly low enough to avoid flight detection. Ross will be alerted soon enough, when he sees that one of Tony’s suit pods is empty, but that will take at least 15 minutes and Tony is faster than any jet at their disposal.  
   
He doesn’t look back. He flies fast.  
   
Ten minutes from the border, his suit shuts down and he falls from the sky.  
   
Oh sure, emergency flight kicks in. It stops him from breaking every bone in his body, but it isn’t comfy either. Tony is scrabbling, desperate to route back control, but the systems go blank and dark and then he’s lying in mud, freezing, with the first drops of rain smacking against his empty visor.  
   
Fuck.  
   
Lights, bright. A helicopter, two trucks. The shining lights clear, and there he is. Standing, silhouetted by light.  
   
Ross.  
   
Tony wonders exactly how this went down. Did he intentionally sell Tony on leaving, just so he could stop him? Or did he get cold feet? Did he spin this whole thing so the President would respect him as the man who caught From Stark? Put an end to his plan? Or did he and Ellis plan this whole thing from the start?  
   
Yes, Tony thinks, of course he did. Yes to all of it, probably.  
   
And Tony is just the stupid, gullible, naive little omega they think he is.  
   
Two men with guns and their faces blocked by bulletproof screens hike forward and catch him under the arms, dragging him up to his feet. Tony won’t hurt them. It’s not their fault.  
   
Ross is making a tsking noise, rushing forward. “Hold on,” he’s saying magnanimously, although Tony knows it’s all smugness, “be gentle boys. No need to be rough, we don’t treat our omegas like that.”  
   
They still let him slide into the mud when Ross reads out his recall code. No one catches him. He’s shivering there, in the dirt, and it’s Ross who holds out a hand and asks someone to bring a blanket, makes a big show of wrapping it round his shoulders, helping him stand. “In this rain!” He exclaims, “Poor Tony, you must be so cold.”  
   
Tony doesn’t care who’s watching: he snaps at Ross with his teeth, feral. One of the men stabs him in the back with a baton, and Ross tells them off, gloating inwardly, telling them not to bother with the cuffs, that he doesn’t think From Stark will be much of a threat now.  
   
He’s shivering, hard. The rain has turned to snow, just like that. Ross helps him into the helicopter, so chivalrous, holding out his hand to pull Tony up the wide gap between the muddy ground and steel of the chopper.  
   
They’re in the air for two hours, and then suddenly, they’re not.  
   
Ross unloads first, holds out his arms for Tony. His head is blurry, he feels nauseous, and it doesn’t even bother him that Ross lifts him bodily at the waist and sets him down on the green grass of the grounds around his home. “The President wants to see you,” he says smugly, “but then we’ll get you in a nice hot bath, yes? That will be nice, won’t it Tony?”  
   
They won’t let him have a bath by himself, Tony knows, because they’re scared he might try and drown himself.  
   
“I asked you a question,” Ross presses when Tony doesn’t answer. “I said, it will be nice to have a hot bath, won’t it Tony? What do you say?”  
   
“Yes,” Tony says dully, “it will be nice to have a hot bath. Thank you, Secretary Ross.”  
   
“Good boy.” Ross pats his back and ushers him across the quad. The President’s security team are milling around the entrance, nod to let them through. Tony is still covered in dirt. He’s still shivering. He thinks he’s going to be sick.  
   
They push him through the doors. Ross’s house is warm. Ross holds out his arm, directs him down the corridor. “He’s waiting in the study,” he says, smiling, like it’s a friendly visit. “Go on.”  
   
Flooboards creak. The lights are dim. President Ellis is standing by Ross’s desk, admiring his book collection, and he sighs when he sees Tony. “Oh, From Stark,” he says, “what are we going to do with you, hmm?”  
   
_Hang me out to dry. Bury me in the Raft. Marry me. The latter being the worst option._  
   
“Sit,” he instructs, gesturing at Ross’s red leather couch. “We’ll keep this brief, shall we? Shut the door, Thaddeus, you’re letting all the warmth out.”  
   
Ellis lumbers over, looks down at Tony smiling like a friendly old sire. “You shouldn’t have done that, From Stark. You’ve made this very difficult for yourself.”  
   
Tony opens his mouth and then closes it. Best outcome, they let him go home. Worst, they literally imprison him. Time to place your bets, people.  
   
“We won’t make it obvious,” Ellis says quietly, “you have my word. No one will know what you tried to do.”  
   
“To escape?” Tony whispers. “That I tried to – to leave? Quietly? And go somewhere I could live my life without – without any of you breathing down my neck like – “  
   
“We’ll do what we can to make this easy for you,” Ross interjects. “Name what you want. You’re a rich man on your own, you don’t need to marry. You can move back to California, hmm? Didn’t you always say you wanted to live in California?”  
   
They’re talking to him like he’s a child. They’re speaking like they’ve won the battle.  
   
“You did this on _purpose,”_ Tony hisses. “You did this because – because you knew it was the only way to get me under control – “  
   
Ellis scoffs gently, and Ross laughs. “Tony,” the president says, simpering, “you really think we drew up this whole bill _just_ for you? We all love our omegas, you know. We all just want you to be safe. And maybe…” Ellis sighs, inclines his head sympathetically, “maybe it’s time you did think about settling down, hmm? You’re young enough. Don’t you want children?”  
   
“I don’t want – “ there’s a pressure building behind Tony’s eyes, a migraine most likely. “If I wanted children, I would have children. You can’t leave this country without – “  
   
“You’re not Iron Man, Tony,” the president says softly. “You’re not a CEO. You haven’t done anything except make these negotiations harder for everyone and – and well, frankly From Stark, I’m not exactly sure what it is you do anymore.”  
   
“I saved you,” Tony says lowly. “I saved your life. And yours,” he spits, shooting Ross a look filled with venom. “Every single one of you, I saved all your lives, and this is how you – “  
   
Ellis pats him on the knee, nods, smiles sadly. “And we’re all very grateful. You did _very_ important work. But this isn’t just about you anymore, Tony. Not everything revolves around you. And it’s time to let the real experts take charge.”  
   
Tony wants to tear out his hair. That isn’t what he said. Why does no one listen to him, why does no one ever fucking listen –  
   
“Can you keep him?” Ellis is saying quietly. “Just for however long it takes for this to blow over. I’ll assign some men to keep him quiet. You’d be doing me a big favour.”  
   
“Of course,” Ross replies, “sure, no. He can take the upstairs room. I’ll get him sorted.”  
   
“Good man.” Ellis claps Ross on the shoulder. “You _are_ a good man. Loyal. And you’re good to him, too.”  
   
“I try to be, Sir.”  
   
“Well – yes. We’ll see, won’t we?” Ellis turns, crouches, smiles close in Tony’s face. “I’m going now, From Stark. I trust you won’t give Secretary Ross too much trouble, hmm?” He clips Tony under the chin and rustles his hair. “I know there’s a good boy in there somewhere, From Stark. We’ll see you settled yet, mark my words.”  
   
He listens to his president’s retreating footsteps, the buzz of his security. Ross sits at his desk and clicks a pen. The clock on the wall ticks. Tony is numb.  
   
Seconds go by. Minutes. Fuzzing in his head.  
   
“I’m going to throw up,” is what he manages to say, before he vomits all over Ross’s mahogany coffee table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions, pls ask! I know this universe is a bit confusing right now, but I have actually fleshed it out. More will be explained in the next few chapters. Steve & Co will be arriving in chapter 6. I love hearing your thoughts!
> 
> I also have a tumblr for people who want more in-depth response:
> 
> http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/ask


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a scene in this chapter that details a sexual exchange between Ross and Tony. Tony is consenting, because he knows it’s necessary to convince Ross of loyalty, but it’s squicky, at the very end, and you can seriously just skip it if you want. I was kind of in two minds about even including it, but figured it was important so left it in.

Tony dreams of Steve.  
   
Or at least he thinks he does. Someone, at some point, had given him a pill that made it hard to tell what was dream and what was real. It helped him sleep, though. They put him in a bedroom upstairs, oak floors, red curtains, all old, musty, archaic. When he wakes, there’s no clock, so he has no way of telling how long he’s been here.  
   
‘Here’, being Ross’s house. It’s the same bedroom he fucked the Ambassador in a few nights ago. Huh. Go figure.  
   
There’s breakfast on a literal silver platter, pancakes, blueberries, and syrup. A bowl of strawberries, lightly sugared. Simple, easy; it’s Tony’s favourite, he’s been known to eat them by the bucket-load. Why does Thaddeus Ross know Tony’s favourite breakfast? Who the hell told him he gets through strawberries like a power drill?  
   
They’re fresh, but Tony isn’t hungry. He’s _bruised._ All up his left side, aches and pain deep in his muscles. He stretches, spasms, and falls back on the bed, breathing through the sharp lacerating ache behind his shoulder blades. Ouch. He should have taken Ross up on the offer of a hot bath.  
   
He’s wearing the same undersuit he was captured in. He checks his pockets; empty. Which means Ross has found his phone, and by now he’s almost definitely seen the messages he sent Steve. Conclusive proof that Tony was trying to cross the border illegally, as if he needed any more evidence to bury Tony in the Raft.  
   
After a time, he manages to stand. He’s just going to walk out the front door, he decides. If they stop him, fine. If they don’t, he doesn’t know. He’ll just keep walking, walking, walking, until he finds his way home. He checks his mental contacts list: who does he have that could help him now?  
   
Vision is a no-go, they would strip him apart for science. Bruce – Bruce hasn’t been seen in months, a year, and even if he was, he probably wouldn’t look too kindly on Tony siding with Ross over the Accords debacle. Tony can picture his face, pained, saddened, _what did you expect, Tones?_  
   
He assumes Natasha found Steve eventually. He knows Steve, certainly, won’t be helping him now. Same goes for the other ones. Clint, Sam, the Ant-guy. Jesus, he can’t ask _Parker._ If Thor were to appear from the sky, Tony would go with him in a heartbeat, but since miracles have been hard to come by this year, Tony isn’t holding his breath.  
   
The sheets still smell of the Ambassador. Tony decides it’s time to go.  
   
He opens the door just slightly and peers through the crack; same empty corridor, stupidly panelled, with cream coloured carpet, the huge staircase and balustrade. He doesn’t have shoes, he realises, and no one has provided him with any, so he quietly makes his way down the stairs.  
   
The door is flanked by two security men and Ross’s steward. Tony can’t remember his name off the top of his head. “Hi,” he says, awkwardly. “I was just wondering – “  
   
“No.” Ross’s steward says, shortly. “You’re not allowed to leave.”  
   
Tony raises his eyebrows. “Uh, okay. You don’t know what I was going to ask.”  
   
“I do. You were going to ask to take a walk. The answer is no. Ross is waiting in his study.”  
   
Tony nods slowly. “Great. Well, thank you anyway. Good morning, for what it’s worth.”  
   
“Have a pleasant morning,” the steward says, shortly. He returns to his position. _Fucking hell,_ Tony thinks, _where did Ross find him? Are all his personnel so friendly?_  
  
He turns to find Ross, but the steward follows him, close to his back. “Can I help you?” He says, irritated. “I know the way, I’ve been here before.”  
   
“Precaution,” the steward says flatly. “My name is John.”  
   
“Okay, John.” John, Tony knew it was John, something so pointlessly generic. “I know my way around, so you don’t need to breathe down my neck.”  
   
“This is the study.”  
   
“Right,” Tony grits. “I know. Like I said, I’ve been here before – “  
   
John knocks on the door. “Stark’s up.”  
   
Ross sighs. “Come in,” he says, wearily, and John opens the door for Tony to walk through.  
   
“Am I a prisoner?” Tony asks, straight off the bat.  
   
“You flew a suit without jurisdiction or threat of attack.”  
   
“Okay, but am I a prisoner?”  
   
“Not yet. Sit down.”  
   
Tony walks to the desk, but doesn’t sit. He wants to be able to stand above Ross; it’s a stupid powerplay, and they both know it, but it makes him feel a lot better to know that Ross won’t be looming over him.  
   
“There are things I need,” Tony continues. “Clothes, I’m allowed clothes aren’t I? Books? Maybe even a tablet? You told me I wasn’t a prisoner. You can’t treat me like a slave.”  
   
“Hmm.” Ross looks up at him. “You want your belongings, is that it?”  
   
 _“Yes.”_  
   
“Including this?” Ross draws out a phone, flicks the screen. “ _Steve: send help. Ross + congress banning O license – need help asap.”_  
   
Tony feels a thick lump in his throat, tender. “That was – you told me to try and get away.”  
   
“I didn’t tell you to consort with criminals. And yet here we are. You, caught illegally trying to cross the border, begging help off an alpha who rejected you. I thought you were better than that, Tony.”  
   
“We both know you had no intention of letting me cross the border,” Tony mutters. “More fool me for believing you.”  
   
“More fool you for thinking Steve Rogers gives a fuck.” Ross tosses him the phone, watches him catch it deftly, hug it to his chest. “He didn’t respond, you know. And there was no sign of him at the coordinates you sent. Get a hint, Stark. He doesn’t care.”  
   
“It was a longshot. I haven’t – we don’t use this phone. I knew it might not reach him. Just because he didn’t – “  
   
“Make up whatever excuse you want. It’s no skin off my back. I’m an alpha, Tony, I know how this goes. He played you, and you fell for it.” Ross’s scent, strangely, goes sympathetic. “Look,” he says, “you had a rough time with Stane. In a sense, I can’t _blame_ you for wanting someone like Rogers. For thinking someone like him would want someone like you.”  
   
Tony can’t help himself. “Someone like him?” He asks, weakly.  
   
“Young, strong, whatever. I don’t know, whatever omegas like you see in alphas like him. But I mean – you had to know, didn’t you? Somewhere, you had to know it was temporary.”  
   
Tony doesn’t want to do this. He turns to leave. Ross keeps talking.  
   
“I mean – you’re what, five years older than him? And you’ve been _married._ Not just married, you’ve carried and lost three times too. And you’re – c’mon, From Stark, I didn’t mean to upset you. We’re just talking, aren’t we? Can’t we just talk?”  
   
“Leave me alone,” Tony says petulantly. He just wants to be left alone, now. Leave him to rot, he doesn’t care.  
   
Ross is standing, and he’s grabbed Tony’s wrist. How did he move so fast? Tony blinks, tests his hold. “Let go of me,” he says, more confused than anything else.  
   
Ross obliges. “Sit.” He instructs. “At the desk. Now.”  
   
Slowly, Tony turns, heads back to the chair, and sits. Ross shuts the door, and then joins him opposite. “Now,” he says, “we’re going to have a talk, and you’re going to listen, understand? Do you understand?”  
   
Tony nods, quickly, briefly. Give the alpha what he wants, that’s what he was always taught.  
   
“You’re here on the understanding that you did something illegal. You flew a suit without authorisation, you tried to cross the border. That alone gets you put in the Raft, no questions asked, pending trial. The Raft isn’t a nice place for omegas, Tony. There’s no special room for your monthly period. They just stick you in a sterile room and be done with it.”  
   
“I know,” Tony says. Who the fuck does Ross think he is? “I was captive, remember? Three months, Afghanistan. It was a whole thing.” Why do people forget? Why does Ross think the _Raft_ is a threat compared to three months in a dusty cave with the threat of death hanging over his head, the taste of blood in his mouth?  
   
“Right.” Ross frowns, like maybe he’s played his best hand too early. “Well, anyway. We’re extending you an olive branch, because of your – service. You will stay here until the bill passes – and it will pass, mark my words. Stop you stirring up trouble. And after that, well, you’re free to go. Obviously not, you know, _free,_ ” Ross says with a shark-like grin. “You’ll have to turn in your license. So no more suits, no more driving. You won’t be voting next year. You’ll be hard pressed to convince your board to let you work R&D. But hey, your money is still yours, so are your houses. You can always ask the State for a license – they’ll deny you, obviously, but you can try.”  
   
There’s that headache again – maybe Tony is actually getting sick. He huffs, kneads his temples. “Hold on,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “Could you… not gloat? I know you love this, Ross, but – don’t you have a shred of human empathy?”  
   
“I do, actually. More than you know.”  
   
Tony looks up. Ross is staring at him, and Tony doesn’t like it. For the first time, there’s something _else_ behind his pupils, like he’s no longer staring _through_ Tony but looking _at_ him. His eyes hover on Tony’s neck, slip lower. Then he collects himself. “Of course,” he says casually, turning back to his papers, “you could always marry.”  
   
“I can’t do that.”  
   
“Consider it your duty. Omega population is in decline. We need people like you to start taking one for the team, doing your part. What would we do without our omegas?”  
   
“You’d have to pick on someone your own size, I guess.”  
   
“That isn’t what I meant and you know it.”  
   
“Ross,” Tony says, voice low, rough. He ducks his head, purposefully makes himself small, because Ross will see what he wants to believe. “I can’t marry again.”  
   
Ross’s scent gets that nasty, prickly, sympathetic smell. “Not every alpha is like _him_ , you know,” he says, probably trying to be gentle. “We’re not all bad.”  
   
Tony tries to will it up from inside him. It’s not hard, it _is_ a desperate situation. Bows his head, pushes his scent into something _sadsadsad,_ weepy, mellow, submissive. He keeps his eyes trained down, because if he looks up it will break the spell and Ross will realise he’s faking.  
   
“Oh no,” Ross says, “don’t do that. Don’t do that From – Tony. You don’t need to do that, here, uh,” Ross flaps around for some tissues, and Tony keeps his head ducked because he hasn’t yet actually managed to get tears to fall from his eyes. “It’s really not all that bad. You’re so – I was just being – mean, earlier. There are lots of alphas who will take you, you’re smart, and you’re rich, you’re – pretty. You know you are. You can have your pick of the bunch. Just – don’t do that, in here. God, I hate – “ Ross’s scent goes so desperately awkward Tony laughs, masks it as a sob. He takes the proffered tissues and dries his already dry eyes.  
   
“It’s not even your fault,” Ross says gruffly. “Your sire raised you wrong. Howard should have known better, product of eighties, raised you like a beta. It’s not your fault you have certain expectations, and – of course, that first marriage. That would put anyone off.”  
   
Tony nods, mute. He can do it. He can do this. Passive, as passive as he can get, he looks up from under thick lashes. “And what do you want from me?” He says softly.  
   
It has the desired effect. The room briefly goes clammy with lust, and Ross has to avoid his eyes. Here’s what happens when Tony uses that tone of voice, lowers his head just so: Ross imagines Tony at his feet. He imagines him sucking his cock, or rubbing his head against his leg, or curled under the desk in a way that a man like Ross likes to deny he enjoys. But Tony knows Ross is a hardline alpha, you don’t become Secretary of State without shitting on everyone else beneath you, and although he likes to pretend he lacks any kind of strong emotion or desire, Tony has _seen_ how he looks at him, like he wants to undress him and parade him naked for every insubordination.  
   
Tony thinks Ross likes him being bratty, secretly. Not enough to irritate, or to break his rules. Just enough for Ross to get off on being the boss. Because that’s what he likes. He likes to think he’s in charge. That he’s a _winner._  
   
He has to play this carefully, though. Ross wouldn’t appreciate Tony throwing himself at his feet. He has to think that Tony isn’t giving himself up willingly, that he’s slowly being broken. Any other alpha like – like Obie. When Obie was angry, Tony could literally fuck it out of him. It was always unpleasant, but he wasn’t clever enough to understand when he was being taken advantage of.  
   
Ross, though. Ross, evidently, is traditional. He likes his omegas meek, he likes them demure, he hates the idea of Tony having any sexual urges at all. In short, he’s a hypocrite. He can slather over Tony as much as he wants, but doesn’t want Tony to get the same back. It’s fine. Tony has dealt with this before.  
   
 _Fight the good fight,_ Steve had said, before he left Tony and never returned his call.  
   
“From you?” He asks, suddenly fascinated with his papers. “Nothing. I want you to keep quiet for the next few weeks until we pass the bill. I don’t want any escape attempts, or games. And, when we pass the bill, you’ll be free to do what you want. Marry who you please.”  
   
No he won’t, Tony thinks. They won’t allow that. They wouldn’t risk SI, his weapons, his suits, his money, his own goddamn genius, falling into someone else’s hands. Ellis knows this, Ross knows this, the whole damn world knows this. One way or another, they’ll see him married to someone who can control him.  
   
It’s the devil you know versus the devil you don’t.  
   
   
The devil Tony knows:  
   
Ross. Close to DC, close to the President, blatantly infatuated with Tony, most likely in lust. Has demonstrated he has a sympathetic side – not enough to go against his own goals, but enough to be comfortable. He’s made it quite clear he thinks what Obie used to do is disgusting; Tony thinks it’s a safe bet he wouldn’t beat Tony around the house.  
   
In time, Tony thinks he could get Ross to trust him. _Really_ trust him. They already have a working relationship, he thinks Ross has a grudging respect for him. Tony could influence him, maybe. He’s already shown that he gullible when it comes to Tony: he’ll see what he wants to see, and what he wants to see is Tony, obedient, docile, meek, _tamed._ He’ll be willing to believe his own hype, Tony bets. He would like to believe that he’s the one who conquered the unconquerable.  
   
The devil Tony doesn’t know:  
   
Anyone else. Ross pretty much admitted they’ve pushed through this legislation with Tony in mind; it stands to reason, therefore, that they won’t stop there. They will find someone suitable for Tony to marry, there’s no shortage of alpha’s close to the government. Ellis could take him, or maybe someone he wants a political favour from. Fuck, they could give him to a puritan. In fact, with the way things are heading, they’re almost guaranteed to do just that. And then Tony really would be fucked.  
   
The devil Tony loves:  
   
Doesn’t matter. Steve is gone. He isn’t coming back.  
   
Cut your losses now, Tony. They’re coming for you, and Steve isn’t going to stop them.  
   
   
So here’s how it’s going to be.  
   
Tony is going to make Ross fall in love with him. He’s not naive, he doesn’t think Ross is really capable of love, but certainly, he can make him think his life will be better if Tony’s a part of it.  
   
He doesn’t have to be subtle. Ross has a vested interest in recruiting Tony to his cause, their whole establishment does. Ellis will be turning hoops in the oval office, the military-industrial complex will shit the bed. Win-win-win big time for, essentially, everyone and anyone who isn’t Tony.  
   
The skill isn’t in marrying Ross; Tony figures they’d probably make him, anyway. Give him an ultimatum, tell him it’s their alpha of choice or they throw him in the Raft on trumped up charges. The skill is making Ross think he’s _broken._ The skill is making Ross genuinely believe he’s won. Because Ross will never fall for it otherwise. He’ll never trust Tony if he thinks he’s a snake in the grass, a dormant volcano, a long-maturing disease of the blood.  
   
It starts with this.  
   
Tony is in one of Ross’s palatial bathrooms, mirror fogged with condensation, razor in hand. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head. This is it. No turning back now, Tony. Piss or get off the pot.  
   
He lathers up his chin and drags the flat of the razor across his cheek. It takes out a clean strip of his beard, sends the little hairs spiralling into the sink. He washes the razor, taps it against the ceramic, and continues.  
   
In the end, he’s left beardless. He hasn’t been without-beard since he was, what, twenty-something? Obie had always liked it because it made him look enlightened, like he was the kind of alpha who let him omega have a beard. Liberated, free-thinking, outward looking, modern. That’s what Obie used to like to think of himself, even while he was beating Tony’s head with a book.  
   
Ross strikes him as traditional. He would like to see Tony missing a part of himself. That would probably make him happy.  
   
He sticks his tongue between his lips and squints at the mirror; he needs a trim. Admittedly, he hasn’t been taking the best care of himself since Steve left, but that all needs to change now. He can’t give himself the usual styled affair, but he cuts the hair around his ears and orders his fringe till his whole head is no longer long enough to tie into a stumpy ponytail. It’s curls around the back of his neck, neat.  
   
He looks surprisingly bare without facial hair. It makes his eyes look bigger – that’s the effect he was going for, almost. Something a little innocent. At least, as innocent as someone like him, with actual blood on his hands, can go for. Alphas don’t notice. It doesn’t occur to them. They don’t care that Tony has wiped out scores of terrorists, legions of aliens, killed his own alpha with his –  
   
(He wonders if Ross knows. It’s an open secret, right? A guy like Ross, he would have read Tony’s file. Steve knew, but because Tony had told him. He’d looked at Tony with something Tony had thought was disgust, but soon realised was fear, mingling with admiration. No chance Mr Secretary of State would react the same way if he mentioned he had his last alpha immolated?)  
   
So this is him. Flying below the radar, a stealth jet. A – Tony has run out of metaphors. He will hide himself. Erase himself. It’s okay, he’s done it before. Stay close, stay low. He will watch the negotiations from afar, he will keep his plans close to his chest.  
   
Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Fuck your enemies.  
   
Literally, fuck your enemy. Climb into bed with that snake and twist the bastard round your little finger, because your friends can’t help you now.  
   
   
He isn’t allowed to touch the computer, and he isn’t allowed a phone. He can watch TV if he wants, he can go for walks if John goes with him. He can read.  
   
With his new mission in mind, Tony sets out to indebt Ross to himself. He cleans the house from top to bottom over the course of a week when Ross is abroad. He reorganises the library. He – under the watchful eye of John, who never _fucking leaves him alone –_ is allowed to sort through Ross’s study, dust off the busts, clean the windows, even touch the holiest of holies, his desk. These are all good, honest, omega pursuits. Tony knows how to do this, he used to do it for Obie all the time. Except Obie was almost ashamed of it – like he was torn between his desire to have Tony spend his days ironing his shirts and building weapons of mass destruction. He liked Tony to somehow find the time to do both. It was stressful.  
   
He watches the news. Pressure on Ellis to grant pardons increases, but he won’t budge. Tony is never consulted. Despite everything, he sometimes thinks they’ve all forgotten he exists. Two weeks without a sound, and it’s like Tony from Stark has disappeared, scourged, reduced. _People are fickle,_ is all Tony thinks.  
   
But they support the bill. Fucking hell, do they support the bill. There’s some opposition, sure. The occasional highly educated omega who, by sheer force of will, fighting tooth and claw, has managed to eke out a career somewhere without an alpha to grant them leeway. Those voices hurt the most. _I wish I could help you,_ Tony wants to scream, _I understand. They take everything from us, and for what?_  
   
Even with this, there isn’t much to fill the day. So Tony will spend whole days in bed, staring at the canopy. He drifts. He dreams. He thinks of Steve, and tries to forget.  
   
   
He’s contacted by the board.  
   
 _From Stark,_ they begin.  
   
 _As recent events continue to unfold, we find it prudent to remind you that an omega with no license cannot act as head of research and design. This, of course, is horrific to us; we greatly admire and support your work, and would be the first to admit that your genius has taken us in a direction which has propelled us into fortune. Under your steady hand, Stark Industries has produced some of its greatest – if not simply the greatest – technology known to man. So for that, we thank you._  
  
 _But, one must be practical. You can no longer serve in your position should this new bill come to fruition. If this is the case, you may wish to marry; understandably, you see this puts us, your company, in a difficult position. You still own majority stock, and ownership of this transferred to your alpha for safe-keeping upon marriage. It is for this reason we ask you to very carefully consider your choice of suitor._  
  
 _The board has compiled a list for your consideration of individuals we find suitable. There is no pressure to select any of these fine alphas, of course (although note that, at the time of writing, each has approached with an offer and have all expressed great interest in you)._  
  
 _As the board of Stark Industries, we very much feel this is a family affair. Many of us remember you when you were younger, From Stark. Some of us even old enough remember your sire! It is for this reason we hope you can trust us to negotiate the bidding for your hand. We will place the full force of our legal team at your disposal in order to negotiate the best contract for both you and our company._  
  
 _We like to think that, should Howard still be alive, he would trust us to do the best by you. Similarly, as you know, it was the best wishes of the late Obadiah Stane, your loving alpha, that responsibility for your next marriage be conferred upon us in order to secure the best outcome for the company he loved so well._  
  
 _Of course, if you choose not to marry, you will remain the sole owner of your stock. However, we regret to inform you that you will be unable to have an active role in the running of our company, should we choose to take it in another direction. Similarly, we would hope you choose an alpha whose interests closely align with ours; alas, if you did not, it would be hard to see your future here with us._  
   
 _Kindest regards,_  
  
 _Your loving family,_  
  
 _The Board_  
   
Loving family his ass. Tony scans the list of alphas’ who have approached to bid; he can’t recognise half the names. Some minor royalty, a Saudi prince, a general, three senators, Christ, the British prime minister’s _daughter_ wants him as a second, no thank you. Ross’s name is there. It’s clear, printed in black ink, with a short description of what he’s offering.  
 _I bid the sum of $10,000,000, direct to the Board of SI for acquiescence. I can promise my control of shares will be minimal to protect the sanctity of my position. I can promise that From Stark will be at liberty to work so long as he complies with my requirements. I can promise that, pending a period of adjustment, From Stark will be granted a license to continue both his work at your company and his role as a protector of liberty. I will be willing for this to be contracted, awaiting contact from my lawyers._  
   
The money is pittance compared to what he’ll get when he takes Tony’s cash. And the Board will fucking devour his links; it’s so corrupt, and they don’t even care. Tony’s eyes only light on one thing, right there, clear as day: he’s promising a license. In his _contract._ That’s legally binding. There’s wiggle room to escape following through, sure; he’s intentionally vague about what ‘period of adjustment’ means. But it shows he’s serious. It shows that he really means to let Tony work, and drive, and maybe even – dare Tony think it – _fly?_  
   
No time to get ahead of himself. It’s a promising start. With Ross, Tony can at least be close to the action. _You have a better chance with Ross than anyone else,_ is what he needs to tell himself. _Steve has a better chance if you can guide Ross’s hand, even a bit._  
   
   
   
“You’re bidding for me,” Tony says, the evening Ross returns.  
   
He doesn’t seem phased by the statement. “I am,” he says. “I thought it might be prudent.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
Ross looks up from his papers, frowns. “Did you shave? I like it. It makes you look very… young.”  
   
“Answer the question, Ross.” Tony is careful with how he plays this; he needs to be combative, but not _too_ combative, not enough to make Ross angry. Just enough to make him feel like he’s winning a fight.  
   
“You saw,” Ross says irritably. “I was under the impression that your board would keep that to themselves until the right time. It’s impolite for me to proposition you while you’re a guest in my house.”  
   
“Prisoner.”  
   
“Whatever.”  
   
“Why are you bidding for me?”  
   
Ross sighs, throws down his work. It’s missile designs, Tony sees. He pretends his doesn’t. “Why not?” He asks in response. “You’re young-ish, you’re clever. I could use you on my side. You’re not bad to look at,” he adds grudgingly, “and I’m not old enough to hang up my boots. The President would be indebted to me if I could control you. Everyone is happy.”  
   
“Except me.”  
   
Ross gives him a withering look, fumbles with his desk draw and lights up a cigar. “Tony,” he says, puffing, “surely you’ve figured by now that your happiness is second to everything.”  
   
Tony tries to make him scent go _sadsadflat,_ but it’s hard when he’s so amped up. He settles for holding his arms to his chest, like Ross has said something that’s upset him. “Can I sit?” He asks.  
   
“If you must. Only if you want to discuss something important.”  
   
Tony tries to make himself look anxious; it’s so much harder when it’s not natural. Curve your shoulders, bite your lip, avoid Ross’s eyes, what else? What is he forgetting?  
   
“I would like to know what you really want from me,” Tony asks, quietly. “Ross, I – you have to know this is very difficult for me.”  
   
“Of course I do.”  
   
“So – I have to know that – I know, I know that my happiness isn’t a priority,” he mumbles, “but I would like to know that for all of this – I’m getting something in return.”  
   
Tony chances a glance up, and Ross’s eyes have softened, if just slightly. “You don’t need to be scared of me,” he says, equally muffled, like he’s embarrassed of the words he’s saying. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
   
“There are more way to hurt me than just – not beating me. I’m not like other omegas – I can be strange. I need to be kept busy. I – “ Tony decides to just launch into the kill “I need a license,” he says, quickly. “I need to know that I’ll be able to work and – and fly. And help people, still.”  
   
Ross is quiet for a beat, puffing on his cigar. Then he says: “Sure. Of course. Why else would I want you?”  
   
“I don’t follow.”  
   
“I’m not an idiot, Tony. Ellis may think the world is better off without you, but I am intimately aware of the threats we face. You’ll get your suits. You can work R&D, if that’s what you want. I’m not petty, the world needs you. For now, at least.”  
   
Tony is genuinely surprised. “I wasn’t aware you had such an admiration for what I do.”  
   
“I don’t. Not really. But I’m a pragmatist. Whether I like it or not, you are very clever. You’re – wily. You want to know what I want from you?” Ross says gruffly, suddenly fascinated with his papers. “I want your respect. I want to know I can rely on you.”  
   
 _You want my company. You want my money. You want my ass._  
   
“That’s – when you put it like that – “  
   
“Hold on, let me finish. I’ll be honest with you, Stark, I want children.”  
   
Christ, of course he does.  
   
“There’s still time. You’re young, and there’s no rush. But I want children. Real children.” _Not a beta daughter who runs off with madcap scientists._  
   
“I…” Tony does it again, lowers his head, plays with his hands as if he’s nervous. “I could give you that. I just – with Obie…” Tony breaks off. “I shouldn’t,” he says, tantalisingly.  
   
Ross leans forward. “No,” he says, intense. “What about Stane? Tell me, what did he do?”  
   
“The pregnancies.” Tony admits, “I went to the doctor. I couldn’t understand why – they never lasted, you know? I lost – two boys, and a girl. The doctor said it was me, but I don’t think it was me. I think it was Obie.”  
   
“You think he was sterile?” Ross asks gleefully. Nothing makes alphas happy like the emasculation of potential rivals. “Oh, Tony. All these years, I’m sorry. I wish I had known.”  
   
Tony nods, like it’s a very hard burden to bear. Ross just eats this shit up.  
   
“It’s alright. It was easier, to let people think – that it was a choice. I was so embarrassed,” Tony adds quietly, conspiratorially, ducking his head. “I thought people would think – well, you know how people talk.”  
   
“You know you don’t have to worry about that with me, don’t you? I’m not – “ Ross scoffs, “I’m nothing like _Stane._ I don’t beat omegas, for starters. I think it takes a real sort of alpha to hurt something so delicate. And, _I_ have no problem having children.” Ross has puffed up his chest, probably isn’t even aware he’s boasting. It’s just what alphas do, they can’t help it. Even Steve did it sometimes, when he was happy. It was sweet, coming from him.  
   
“It might be nice to have children,” Tony says wistfully. He’s not lying. He always imagined Steve would be their father, though. And that they would be happy. And he would have a little baby all of his own to love and hold. “I thought…”  
   
“Rogers,” Ross growls, sudden. “You thought it would be Rogers.”  
   
Deflect and detract. “I did,” Tony says simply. “But Steve isn’t here, and I’m not getting any younger, and – “ he looks up, looks Ross straight in the eye. “And I don’t have anyone else,” he says frankly.  
   
“You’re so flattering.”  
   
“I’m a pragmatist,” Tony repeats, stealing Ross’s words. “I’m realistic.”  
   
“So what are you telling me?”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. “I’m saying that – if you had your lawyers talk to mine, and if we could… reach an accord…”  
   
“My God Tony, are your proposing?” Ross says dryly. “And to think, just a few months ago, you were ignoring my calls.”  
   
Tony, true to form, ignores that too. _Think of Steve,_ he wills himself, _think of your future._ “There’s no deal without a license. And there’s no deal without you swearing I will be Iron Man. It’s non-negotiable. If you don’t agree – I can always find someone else.”  
   
“That your board approves of?” Ross says lightly. “I doubt it.”  
   
“Ross,” Tony says, and he’s not messing around. “Look at me.”  
   
Ross does. It’s disconcerting. Tony doesn’t realise how little they ever actually look each other in the eyes. “What?” He asks.  
   
“I’m trusting you. I’m – literally trusting you.” _Not true!_ Tony’s brain laughs _Ha ha you fucking idiot, you actually think I could trust a fuckstick like yourself!_  
  
But Ross’s scent floods blatantly with lust. It makes Tony want to vomit. _Yikes._ Maybe he underestimated just how obsessed Ross was with him – fine, that’s fine, it only helps him. Still, it makes him uncomfortable. And so impolite. Steve would never –  
   
Actually, Steve would. Tony remember the first time. Two months post-New York, roughly. Steve and Tony, in the kitchen. They were fighting – not even about something important, but it had felt important at the time, because Tony was getting angrier and Steve was getting more animated and next thing he knew –  
   
Steve had snapped, right in his face. Tony had wrinkled his nose. “What the hell?”  
   
And poor Steve, his scent had gone sticky, so embarrassed Tony wanted to curl up into a ball and die on his behalf. “I’m sorry,” he’d said, face flushed red, “is that not – acceptable anymore?”  
   
Tony had raised an eyebrow. “What, snarling in someone’s face? Yeah, it’s pretty taboo. Why?”  
   
“I didn’t realise,” he’d said flatly. And then he’d gone quiet, played with his food, tried to change the subject, but Tony had felt so bad that he’d pushed Steve to that, so he’d laid a hand on his arm.  
   
And Steve had looked up, pupils blown, the scent of _lustlustlust_ so overwhelming Tony had turned red. And it was awful for both of them. And that just made it worse, because Steve started to apologise, and then so did Tony, and –  
   
It hadn’t taken long for them to fall into bed, is the point.  
   
“Are you even listening?” Ross barks. “Where do you go? Hello? Tony? Anyone home?”  
   
“I was thinking,” Tony frowns, irritated, broken from his day-dream. “I have some more conditions. If you could accommodate them.”  
   
“Depends what they are, obviously.”  
   
“I need you to promise that – “ Tony takes a deep, shaky breath, “that James Barnes won’t be prosecuted. You know, inevitably, when you or someone else grants clemency. I need to know that Barnes won’t be – treated differently, because of what he did.”  
   
Ross studies him carefully. “I didn’t think you were so hot on him,” he says, slowly. “At least, not after what happened.”  
   
“I’m not.” Tony pictures Steve, warm, earnest Steve, how happy he had been when they found Barnes, how devastated when he realised the mental toll all those years had taken on his friend. “It’s just important. For – fairness sake.”  
   
Ross shrugs a shoulder. “Sure, I can promise it. I might not be Secretary of State to ensure it when the time comes.”  
   
“You have your ways, I’m sure.”  
   
“I do,” Ross says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “What will your friends think of this?” He asks, carefully. “This arrangement we have?”  
   
 _They’ll think I was forced into it. They’ll be right._  
   
“It doesn’t matter what they think,” is what Tony responds, quiet. “They haven’t been so reliable, lately.”  
   
“And yet you’re still willing to put yourself out for them?”  
   
Tony looks away. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”  
   
Ross stands. “Fine. Good enough for me. I’ll have my people contact your people, provide a provisional contract. You’ll look it over, send me your amendments, etc, etc. Let’s toast to a long and – happy,” Ross stresses with a wry smirk, “partnership.” He fills two crystal glasses with a finger of scotch. Hands Tony one and holds the other. “Of Ross,” he says toasts. “Tony, of Ross. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”  
   
   
   
   
So this is where Tony stands.  
   
In a kitchen. Somewhere down the hall, Ross is sitting with other alphas, laughing, drunk, congratulating himself on his betrothal, ostensibly to talk work, realistically to boast. Tony is drumming his nails against the counter-top, making his way through a bottle of wine, trying to focus on anything but what he just agreed to.  
   
When Tony was 17, he was betrothed to Obie. That was a different affair, a huge spectacle – as well it should be, considering how much Obie paid. The largest amount in the history of America, actually, and that’s adjusting for inflation. In the end, it came down between Obie, a drug-lord, and Alexander Pierce, then the newly minted commander of SHIELD. Obie won because no one else was stupid enough to flash around that amount of cash. It helped that, at the time, Howard trusted him. Barely.  
   
He doesn’t think Ross will treat him the way Obie did. For starters, he’s older. He’s stronger. He literally commands suits of armor that could decapitate Ross in a second, should it come to that. He’s not as naïve. He won’t let Ross walk over him like a used carpet.  
   
He’s not sure what to make of Ross’s sudden desire for offspring. He files it under ‘not going to think about it; cross the bridge when I come to it’. If he has to, he has to. It’s not like he’ll have a choice, in the end.  
   
“He wants you.”  
   
John is standing in the doorway, dour. “Crack a smile, John,” Tony smiles, tight, false. “Didn’t you hear? There’s going to be a wedding.”  
   
“I’m thrilled.” John says flatly. “Like I said, Mr Ross would like to see you in his study.”  
   
“Wants to show me off?” Tony winks, bumping his hip against John’s. “Aren’t I just the luckiest O in the world?” He swoons. “Catch me John, I think I might faint.”  
   
“You have a good sense of humor.”  
   
“Thanks, John.” Tony flattens his hair to his head and brushes down his shirt. He shouldn’t have drunk so much; he’s actually slightly tipsy, which is never good when you’re facing an alpha. It’s best to have your wits about you.  
   
“He’s here!” Ross cries, giddy. “Men, I’m sure you recognise From Stark. Soon to be Of Ross, obviously.”  
   
“Pleasure,” the alphas chant, almost in unison. “So this is where they’ve been hiding you?” Says a smarmy, short man with greasy hair and too-big glasses. “Fascinating.”  
   
“Tony, Arnold is the editor of the Beta Broadcasting Network. And George here, you might recognise – he used to work as a lobbyist for SI?”  
   
Tony does remember him. He used to attend their Christmas parties, and would always look at Tony like he expected him to be hard and soaking. “A pleasure,” he says, evidently disgusted.  
   
George laughs, though. “To think, Tony – after all of that. Here we are again! Isn’t that funny?”  
   
“Hysterical.”  
   
Ross introduces him to the other alphas in the room – a senator from New York and the governor of Florida, respectively. “Tony,” he says, “why don’t you get our guests some drinks?”  
   
 _Yeah, you’d just love that wouldn’t you?_ “Of course,” Tony says with the same plastered-on smile. “Nothing fancy I hope. Last I checked, Ross, you had really gotten through the vodka!”  
   
Awkward laughter, and Ross is shooting daggers. “Well, I’m sure a few beers would suffice. Why don’t you grab them, and shimmy on back here?”  
   
He slaps his ass as he turns and _fuck_ if that doesn’t really get Tony’s goat. He knows the routine by now: crack open the beers, huck up some saliva, spit in each one. Tony almost hopes he’s got some kind of dormant contagious disease; that would really fucking show them, wouldn’t it?  
   
They barely notice when he returns with a tray of green bottles. “Thanks, sweetie,” George says dismissively. _Hey George,_ Tony finds himself thinking, _why don’t you just go die, George?_  
   
“Where are you going?” Ross asks, affronted, slurring. “Did I say you could leave?”  
   
 _You’re drunk,_ Tony thinks. “No,” he says, folding his hands in front of him. “I’m sorry. Do you want something else?”  
   
“Sit with us,” Ross says, and he throws down a pillow. Tony follows it with his eyes. _Does he want me to kneel?!_ Tony thinks hysterically. Even Obie wouldn’t, but then Obie liked to pretend he was liberal. Tony’s feet feel like wooden blocks, clunky. He makes his way to the couch, and pauses.  
   
Ross jerks his chin downwards. “On the floor,” he says, with a slight, small smirk on his face. _He loves this,_ Tony thinks, eyes narrowed. _He loves doing this to me, he gets off on it, the anal thrush of human beings._ Showing off in front of the other alphas, isn’t he such a big man, huh? Big Secretary of State showing off his newest prize, isn’t that just fucking brilliant –  
   
The moment Tony’s knees hit the pillow, Ross has pushed his head flat against the couch seat. Tony instinctively tries to tug away, but Ross’s big hand finds the back of his neck and just –  
   
Strokes him.  
   
He decides not to fight. Fingers are… teasing, slightly, pinching to the point of pain then releasing, stroking, _petting,_ like he’s a dog. It feels so good, though. He hasn’t been touched like this since Steve left, and he’s been so stressed lately. Everything is awful, but sometimes it’s just nice to have someone touch your neck, smooth you out. At some point, it stops even bothering him that it’s Ross, that it’s front of his friends, because his mind is running like sticky syrup, and he’s released every muscle in his body, drooling onto the couch.  
   
“Warren’s said he’ll give support,” one of them is saying, “and with Warren, you get the whole bloc.”  
   
“Crazies,” Ross dismisses, tugging slightly on the hair on Tony’s nape, leaving him shivering. “Can’t rely on them. Give them an inch, they take a mile. They want to stop Alpha-women aborting – do _you_ want to tell an alpha woman she’s not allowed to abort? Fucking hell. I’m not selling my soul just to end up bent over a barrel. Give me something new.”  
   
“There was – “ the speaker falls into hushed tones. “There is another way, they think. Something that would boost Ellis’s ratings.”  
   
Tony groans. Whoops, didn’t mean to. Ross is digging his thumb and sliding it across Tony’s nape, massaging, and his belly has tightened, his entire body completely loose. If a man with a gun ran in right now and told them all they to do to live was stand up, Tony would die, because he can’t even lift his head. He feels the room go silent, tense; all eyes on him, slathering. “Don’t mind him,” Ross says, pinching slightly in reproach. “Go on.”  
   
“They – uh,” the alpha is opening and shutting his mouth, eyes still fixed on Tony. “They – suggested that – the Captain, and his team. If they were to be granted amnesty – “  
   
“No.”  
   
“But Thadd, it’s not just about – “  
   
“No. It shows weakness. Turning around so soon makes us look like idiots, it makes the President look like an idiot.”  
   
 _You’re the only idiot here, Ross,_ Tony thinks drowsily. Ellis is the equivalent of political suicide. You might as well let Steve come back, damn your pride. It’s the only thing your government has to offer.  
   
This is what he was thinking of. Close to the action. Snake in the grass. Double agent. Like this, playing the snoozy omega, he is more privy to their conversations than he ever was as Tony from Stark.  
   
Which is actually incredibly depressing.  
   
Their conversation drifts to baseball, and then how much they hate their wives. One of them, Mr Florida, is planning on getting an omega he hates his poor beta wife so much. Tony feels sorry for her more than anyone else in the room tonight.  
   
But he drifts eventually. Not asleep, spacing out. Ross’s hand doesn’t leave his neck; it’s a stupid powerplay, but it’s effective. Even Tony doesn’t want to resist this it feels so good. And it’s mostly harmless. Mostly. _Make him think he’s won,_ Tony thinks drowsily. _He needs to think you’re meek._  
   
He wasn’t aware that people were leaving, but they were. Tony tries to stand too, but Ross holds him against the couch, stands first, and leads his merry band of fuckwits and degenerates out to the hallway. Tony is…  
   
Tired. He could sleep, really. He doesn’t enjoy being paraded like a poodle, and he doesn’t want to be treated like a waitress. He stumbles to his feet, stretches. Achingly, he makes his way down the hall.  
   
He hears the front door slam, and doesn’t think anything of it. He hears Ross’s footsteps, slow and thudding, and it doesn’t bother him. But then there’s a hand on his shoulder, soft but demanding, pulling him round.  
   
“Try before you buy,” Ross slurs. He pushes Tony back, so he hits the wall with a soft thud. “You see how they looked at you in there? Like you were… like they’re dogs fighting over a piece of thick, juicy meat.” Ross licks his lips, crowds Tony till he hits the wall with a soft thud. “Show me your neck.”  
   
His breath smells like onions and whiskey. Tony tips back his head, exposes the line of his throat. Every cell in his body is telling him to clench his chin to his sternum, raise his shoulders, crouch into a ball until the threat goes away, but Ross is insistent. He drags his nails down the line of Tony’s throat, and –  
   
Tony shivers.  
   
It’s disgustingly intimate.  
   
Ross pop the buttons of his polo neck, leans close and takes deep breath at the glands on the base of his neck. “I told myself I’d wait,” he mumbles against Tony’s skin. “But seeing you in there – “ Ross groans, presses himself against Tony’s leg, and Tony – he almost lets revulsion show on his face, hopes that his grimace comes off as demure. “You were such a good little boy, weren’t you? I always knew you could be good. I just knew you needed a firm hand.”  
   
Ross’s hand in his hair, pressing him against the wall, sucking his neck. Wet, dripping things with too much teeth. Tony shuts his eyes. Tony thinks about flying. Tony thinks about tight shirts cut to a V, sleeping naked, scotch on the rocks. He thinks about Steve.  
   
His body starts going through the motions but there’s no feeling attached to the slick that leaks into his pants, and he stays limp. He doesn’t think he could feel aroused even if Steve danced in front of him naked with a hard-on the size of the empire state.  
   
“All those times I thought about bending you over a desk. All those stupid little suits and the red ties, playing alpha. I know what you really need – sometimes you need things you don’t want, Tony, but that’s my burden. To do right by you, always. That’s an alpha’s burden,” he whispers into Tony’s ear.  
   
 _If that’s what you want to think,_ Tony sighs inwardly. If Ross wants to get off on the whole concept of having Tony Stark utterly dependent on him, that’s his business. Tony’s just going along for the ride and doing his best to survive.  
   
Ross has shrugged off his waist-jacket, and now he’s fiddling with the clasp of Tony’s pants. “No,” he says, “wait,” and steps back. “You do it. Take off your clothes.”  
   
Tony thinks about sun on his skin. He thinks about Steve’s smile. He thinks about warm hugs, and potroasts, and his mother’s piano.  
   
He takes off his shirt. He slips out of his pants. He lowers his underwear, and stands naked in the corridor.  
   
Ross’s hands are rough, prying. He doesn’t do gentle. They pinch the fat of his belly, cup the curve of his ass, push their fingers into his mouth. They slip down his chest, rub their thumbs against his nipples, dig their nails into the sensitive, sensitive skin. They go lower; Ross holds his chin in one hand, forces him to meet his eyes, and fondles him with the other, let’s go of his limp dick and slides two fingers against his hole.  
   
Hot and wet, Tony knows. He can’t help it.  
   
“Filthy,” Ross spits, voice a whisper, barely audible. “Imagine that. The Iron Man is just a dirty little omega. Gets hot for it the second someone tells him to drop his pants.”  
   
Tony wants to respond, but his mouth is dry. He stays mute. He wonders if his whole marriage will be like this. Ross, too prudish to admit to desire in the light of day, so all their exchanges limited to a dark corridor in their house. Ross muttering his fantasies into Tony’s pliable body, Tony not having to do anything except just take it and think of anything else.  
   
It’s not too bad, all things considered. It could be worse.  
   
“Turn around,” Ross orders, and he’s practically frothing with excitement. “Stick out your ass. No, your hips – that’s it, push them back. Spread wider,” he kicks at Tony’s ankles, and blessedly Tony can frown against the wall without Ross seeing. “Hands against the wall, brace them. Don’t move, not a muscle.”  
   
Does his ass count? Tony flinches slightly when Ross rests a heavy palm on the small of his back, and he clenches, another spurt of wetness trickling down his balls. He’s breathing hot breath against the back of Tony’s head, pushing one dry finger into Tony’s hole. Tony winces; it’s rough, and Ross’s fingers are thick. Thick, nice and thick and filling. Mmm, he could just – if he just crooked them like so, Tony could get hard, and ride those fingers until he was flush and loose. Ross could use him however he wanted to then, he’d be so open, and it wouldn’t even matter that Tony hates –  
   
“Eager,” Ross says salaciously against Tony’s ear, licking a strip just behind his lobe. “This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? Someone to actually take care of you. Not that liberal, hippy-drippy crap the Captain gave you. A real alpha, setting your boundaries.”  
   
Tony can’t help himself. “Oh yes alpha,” he groans, sarcastic, hyperbolic. “Just needed a real man to take care of me, that’s exactly what I needed. Dreamed about having your thick, fat cock whenever we talked, whenever I went against what you said, because I’m an omega. I’m a stupid, little omega who – that’s all I am.”  
   
Okay. Ouch. He hadn’t meant it to go that far, or to come so natural. But Ross eats it up, the scent of him so lustful Tony’s scared he might have a heart attack right there. He’s strong, very strong, for his age. Oh God, his age. Don’t think about it, don’t think about --  
   
He pushes Tony’s head down till the back of his neck is utterly exposed. Tony braces himself. People have done worse. Obie used to pinch him there, twist the skin of his glands and slap the back of his neck, the pain so extending it would leave him writhing on the floor. He goes still, perfectly still, and forces his shoulders down.  
   
Gently, barely there. He’s scraping his nails so softly against Tony’s nape, so light that he shivers, bows his back, gasps – or maybe, more of a sigh, it’s hard to tell.  
   
“That’s what I thought,” Ross laughs, throaty, low. “You can be desperate, can’t you? Hmm? Look at you, pushing back. Just what I suspected, a desperate little slut.”  
   
Tony can’t get hard. He _wants_ to get hard. He wants to rub himself against the wall. But the pills won’t let him, even though he’s dripping all down his legs onto the floor. He makes a short noise in the back of his throat, frustration, and Ross slams him forward into the panelling. “Time for you to use words, boy.” Ross’s voice is rough, patronising. The fact he thinks Tony’s so far gone he’s actually lost words is laughable. “Beg, now. I want to hear you beg me for everything I have, because you’re nothing without it. You’re nothing without me. Say it. _Say it.”_  
   
He winds his hand in Tony’s hair, pulls it at the root, keeps fucking his fingers deep inside so Tony is caught between pain and pleasure, desperate to step away from both. “I’m – nothing without you,” he manages, wondering if that’s what Ross wants to hear. “I’m nothing but – but a bitch. All I need is to be bred. That’s all I want.”  
   
“Tell me why!” Ross snarls, fucking three fingers inside him, curling them against his walls.  
   
“Because – because – “ Tony can’t really think of any reason why he’d want to give up basic liberties. Ross pulls his hair, and then crooks his fingers inside him, tugging up so Tony’s hole stretches obscenely, painfully wide. He yelps, tries to scrabble onto his toes, scratching at the wall. “Because I want to be bred!” He barks, aware of how stupid he sounds. “I want to be – to be good. To be a good omega.  It’s all I am.”  
   
“That’s right,” Ross grunts, “you’re nothing. You’re just _bred_ for this, built to service me. Whatever I want, whenever I want, that’s your job and it’s your _only_ job. You live to serve me. _Say it._ Say that you live to serve me!”  
   
“I live to serve you,” Tony pants, trying to loosen Ross’s grip. “Just you. It’s all for you. You own me. You own me, Ross, you win. You won, I’m yours, and I’ll do whatever you want, alright? Whatever you want. You _win._ ”  
   
Ross groans like he’s come just from the words alone, those two special words, the most important words of all: you win. “I love this,” he cries, sliding himself inside Tony. “God help me, I fucking love you. I think I might actually love you.”  
   
After all the build-up, the actual event is over in less than a minute. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it comes across that Ross has a serious inferiority complex.
> 
> Real talk, there are a few comments that sort of reference the fact that Tony seems like a bit of a pushover, but that’s kind of the point. Not that he’s weak, but that he’s on a very uneven footing with everyone else because of the nature of this universe. He has to use what he has, because people don’t respect him for anything else, no matter what he does. Idk I hope it comes across that Tony is manipulating Ross as best he can, and using every tool at his disposal, but he’s not ‘strong’ in the action-film masculine sense where he blows shit up and shoots people down and snarks all the time. He’s strong in that he’s exhaustingly, constantly, having to subvert people around him to get what he wants.
> 
> Also, this chapter is long-ish. I debated whether to split it in two, and didn’t. Sorry if it’s a lot to digest in one. The sooner we get to Steve the better.
> 
> Would really like to hear feedback on this! I can’t tell you how motivating comments are. Like whenever you put it down, getting a comment kind of make you want to pick it up again?
> 
> And, to clarify, there will definitely be a happy ending. Just for those still wondering.


	4. Chapter 4

The President signs off on the bill, and three days later, Tony is married.  
   
Tony doesn’t know the omegas who show up to dress him. He has no friends. A young girl, an older woman, the President’s nephew and an old O, greying and severe. Traditionally, Tony isn’t supposed to lift a finger, but he’s already dressed when they arrive because it isn’t hard to wear a suit. Someone, one of them, fixes his veil to his head. It was his mother’s. He wore it when he married Obie, and has kept it ever since, white silk cloaked in gauze, adorned with spirals along the base. It’s the only thing Ross has allowed him to take from the old HQ, and even then he had to send John; he wasn’t allowed to go home.  
   
His heat is due any day. A week from now, he could be carrying. Isn’t that funny? Hysterical. Tony could carrying Thaddeus Ross’s baby. In less than an hour, he’ll be Of Ross, not From Stark.  
   
God, oh God, oh God, oh God.  
   
The omegas – strangers, he doesn’t have a single clue who any of them are – flank him down the stairs and out the front door. He’s barely left the house in weeks. It’s sunny, cold, but bright. A beautiful day in early winter. A black sedan marked with two American flags is waiting for him out front. Outside the gate, at the bottom of the garden, the press are gathered, flashing cameras, helicopter flying above, and he’s so glad they can’t see his face.  
   
The old omega travels with him. He doesn’t try to make conversation. Tony is twisting his hands over and over. _It’s not too late,_ he’s thinking, _you can still back out. They don’t own you yet._  
   
And then what? Wait till they find him some other alpha they approve of to keep him in line. Someone worse than Ross. They always get him in the end. Tony should have known he would never be allowed to be free.  
   
He fantasizes. Steve bursts through the church doors, tells them to stop the wedding. He rips of Ross’s head and drop-kicks the President in the gut. He takes Tony home, and everything else is a bad dream, and they are happy for the rest of their lives.  
   
It could happen. It could still happen. Steve could be coming for him, maybe.  
   
They’re at a church. Tony doesn’t recognise it. Tony doesn’t know Virginia at all. But now he’s going to live in Virginia. Virginia will be his home till death do them part. Ross will never let him go to California now, he’s bound to him for the rest of his life. Tony can’t breathe. There are cameras flashing in his face, but he can’t breathe.  
   
Past the gates. The older omega gruffly jerks his chin, indicates that he needs to step out. The driver has opened the car door. Tony tries to thank him, but words don’t work in his mouth. He ascends the steps into the cool interior. He hasn’t been in a church since Obie died, he thinks.  
   
“Beautiful,” someone says, clapping their hands slowly. “Absolutely astounding. Isn’t he just a piece, ladies and gentlemen?” President Ellis is smiling wide – fake – offering to kiss Tony’s knuckles. Everything is blurry behind his veil. He thinks he gives Ellis his hand, or maybe he just takes it anyway. He can’t remember.  
   
“Didn’t I say I would see you settled? And so close, too. Practically family. You know,” Ellis whispers conspiratorially, “if it hadn’t worked out with Ross, I going to propose I take you myself. But you’d be a second, and no one wants to be a second wife, do they? Especially someone like you. You’re meant to sit at the head of table, hmm?”  
   
Ellis maybe thinks he’s trying to be kind, but Tony thinks he’s too clever for that. He knows exactly what kind of effect the words have. He reaches for Tony’s arm and tucks it against himself, pulling Tony close. “Wh – what are you doing?” Tony croaks, flapping. He recoils in shock, stumbling back slightly.  
   
“Didn’t you know?” The President says casually, “I’m giving you away. Someone has to. No sire, no alpha relatives. I suppose Rogers would have, but – head of state is close enough, right? I’m practically like a father anyway.” He pats Tony’s hand in what is supposed to be a comforting gesture, but feels parasitical. “And that’s a lovely veil, by the way,” Ellis whispers as the doors to the church open. “Very traditional.”  
   
It’s supposed to be a small affair, but there’s at least 200 guests sitting in the pews. Intimate, is what Ross promised. But it doesn’t feel intimate when a hundred or so delegates, minor royalty, and heads of state are sitting and watching him sign away his life. Steve, where are you? Steve, any minute now –  
   
Someone starts up music – national anthem, how patriotic. Tony’s feet don’t move. The President is tugging him, but he can’t move his feet –  
   
This is supposed to be the happiest day of his life.  
   
“Come on,” Ellis hisses, pulling him forward. He stumbles slightly, rights himself, and feels like his feet have been cemented into concrete blocks. No one can see his face. Ross is standing at the altar, but he doesn’t bother to turn to look at Tony. Please, don’t let him vomit here in front of all these people. Please just let him get to the end of the service before he crumbles.  
   
The President deposits him by Ross’s side. He helps him down to his knees. Tony is shaking. He hopes no one can see him shaking. The pastor starts murmuring, the congregation sits, Ross is stiff beside him. Tony is nervous – not just because he knows that in ten minutes he’ll be Ross’s omega, but because he’s waiting. Hoping. He thinks there’s still a chance Steve could walk through those doors –  
   
“And do you, Thaddeus Archibald Ross, so take this omega into your care and protection, to preserve and shelter, defend and guard, until death do you part?”  
   
“I do.”  
   
“And Anthony Edward, From Stark, do you so swear to honour and obey, to love and serve, to nurture and submit, until death do you part?”  
   
Words are stuck in Tony’s throat. They’re stuck, he can’t get them out. “I obey,” he croaks, almost gasping.  
   
“Then, in the eyes of God, alpha of us all, I do declare you bound.”  
   
Ross is standing at his back. He’s smoothing the flat of the collar around Tony’s throat, fingers rough against the back of his neck. Right now, head already light, the brushes make him woozy, enough that he thinks he might just keel over. He lets Ro – he lets his alpha strap the collar firm, fiddling with the gold fastenings. He doesn’t even know what it looks like. The collar Obie got him – it had been gaudy. He still has it as a keepsake, but he never wore it after they were married.  
   
Maybe Ross will want him to wear his collar in public. It doesn’t matter what Tony wants.  
   
There’s polite applause from the congregation. No one is here because they genuinely care for Tony, and Ross has very few friends that he hasn’t stabbed in the back. His daughter is a no show – Tony isn’t surprised. But right now, in this room full of people, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt more alone.  
   
_Steve didn’t know,_ he tells himself as Ross helps him stand, _or maybe, maybe he’s still on his way. Maybe he’ll arrive at the reception, and at least – even if Tony can’t divorce Ross, he’ll at least know that someone loved him enough to show up. And that Steve still loved him enough to try._  
   
Ross is tucking his hand into his arm. He pats it softly with a rough hand; Tony is shaking. “It’s alright,” he says quietly, voice gruff. “You don’t need to be afraid.”  
   
Tony wants to say that he isn’t afraid, he’s devastated. He’s hopeless. He’s walked back down aisle, and not a single person cares.  
   
   
They had sat apart in the car, Ross on one side, Tony on the other.  
   
They sit apart at the reception. Ross, at the head table, entertaining the alphas. Tony, in the lounge, supposedly holding court of the omegas. But instead he just sits there, numb, while the rest of the chatter over him. No one tries to engage him in conversation; Tony suspects a few might be laughing at him. He’s allowed to remove his veil in their company, but he doesn’t. He isn’t popular with omegas, not since he burned his bridges after Obie’s death. He thought he was moving on to better things. He thought he might be a hero, an engineer, a political player.  
   
He’s back to being a housewife.  
   
After a time, the omegas chaperone him to the bedroom. Their bedroom. Ross’s room. They clinically strip him, dress him in silk, in jewellery. They make noises about his collar, how pretty it looks, how lucky Tony is, but mostly they talk amongst themselves.  
   
The old omega clears them out. His word takes precedence, even over Ellis’s nephew, because he’s the eldest. Omegas are very hierarchical like that.  
   
“Would you like a drink?” He asks quietly. Accent hard to place; southern, but like it’s been trained out of him. Tony nods jerkily, still standing in the middle of the floor.  
   
The old omega is brisk, efficient. He hands him a finger of scotch, twists the tie on the veil, folds it up and rests it on the bedside cabinet. He reaches for the bedding shroud, lets Tony finish his drink, then smooths it over head, face masked by the red gauzy material.  
   
“You can rest a bit first,” he says, slowly. “You must be tired.”  
   
Tony can’t speak. The omega helps slide him under the sheets. In a few hours, it will be too hot for that, but for now it’s comforting, even if it is a strange bed in a strange room in a strange house with a stranger.  
   
“Do you have any scent comfort?” The omega enquires. Tony shakes his head. Ross hadn’t let him go back to HQ, and besides, it’s not right to sleep with Steve’s old shirts on his wedding night to Ross. “A pity,” the old omega sighs. “Should I leave you?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. He doesn’t know why. He just doesn’t want to be alone, and friendless, in this bed. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, tucking his knees under his chin. “I – it’s so embarrassing. I don’t have anyone.”  
   
The old omega sits carefully at the end of the bed. “That doesn’t matter. You’re not the first omega to be wed for political gain. You won’t be the last. Your friends don’t matter, anyway.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, swallows hard. “I thought – I had a friend. I thought maybe he would come today. I thought – it was stupid. I thought maybe anyone would come, and not just to laugh at me. I – I’m sorry, for telling you this.”  
   
“Even if your… _friend_ came back, you wouldn’t be able to see him. You realise that, don’t you?”  
   
“I don’t think he would want me even if he did.”  
   
“Then stop labouring the point. What’s done is done. You can’t unspill the milk. Make the General happy, give him children, and in a few years’ time you’ll wonder why you were ever so upset to begin with. When your children come, what you want won’t matter anyway. You’ll give your life to them. They will make you happy, even if your alpha doesn’t.”  
   
Tony feels sickness creeping along his chest. “I would like to be alone now,” he mumbles.  
   
“Very well.” The old omega stands. “Good luck. It’s not so bad, Of Ross. I’ve done this four times, would you believe. It never gets harder.”  
   
“Thanks,” Tony says, “that’s really… “ quick, what can he say? “Comforting,” he decides.  
   
   
Tony rests fitfully. He lies in bed, awake, until the early hours of the morning. Eventually, he hears the cheers from downstairs, rowdy alphas following Ross up to the landing. He shouts something, loud, laughing, and the alpha’s clap and whoop like it’s the fucking super-bowl. Please don’t come here, please, for the love of Christ, don’t come in here while Tony’s dressed in lingerie he suspects Ross’s staffer might have picked out and wearing a collar worth about the same roughly as the GDP of a small European country.  
   
“You were shaking up a storm in the church,” Ross says conversationally, tugging off his tie. “What’s wrong? Not like you to be so quiet.”  
   
Tony mumbles something about his heat, about hormones, about nerves. Ross helps himself to a drink, and says it again. “You don’t need to be scared of me, Tony. I know I can be… harsh. But I won’t ever hurt you. I want to be fair to you, for what’s it worth. I want this to work. For our children’s sake.”  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything. He spreads his legs and stares the dark canopy above him. Ross sighs, and turns off the light. He fumbles around for a bit, maybe putting on some sleep clothes, and Tony’s stomach twists itself into a knot and just _stays_ like that.  
   
This shouldn’t upset him as much as it does. They’re omega and alpha, this is natural. This, at the very least, is what he should know to expect. But he’s trembling beneath his veil, face crumpling. He’s this close. He’s hung on, all this time, and he’s not sure he can do it for much longer. Ross’s weight shifts the bed, he settles himself between Tony’s legs, and then –  
   
“You look like you want to vomit.” Ross speaks bluntly, pulling up the veil. Monogrammed pyjamas, who the fuck has monogrammed pyjamas? What has Tony married into? What kind of psychotic has pyjamas with their name inscribed on the front and actually _wears_ them on his wedding night?  
   
_Steve could still come_ , he thinks, _stop it, he could still come for you. He’s just waiting, he’s biding his time. He could be here tomorrow. You could wake up, and he’ll be here, just like he always promised._  
   
“I won’t,” Tony manages, shutting his eyes, blocking it out. “Just do it. Quickly.”  
   
Ross frowns. “It’s not – it’s not as bad as all that, I’ll be gentle. Is it – “ Ross’s voice dips “is this because of the hallway? I was drunk, Tony. I’m not that rough normally, not really.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, opens his eyes. He tries to give a watery smile. “It’s fine,” he says, even though it obviously isn’t, “it’s just – the hormones,” he rasps. “I get so – so jaggy in heat. You’ll see. You’ll get used to it, and – and next time – next time – “  
   
God, there’ll be a next time. And a time after that, and a time after that, all the way until he knocks Tony up, and then it will keep going over and over and over. Tony scent goes sickly, so desperately distressed even he can smell it. “I’m sorry,” he says, because it’s so rude, “it’s not you, it’s not even you, it’s just me and my stupid fucking – I’m sorry.”  
   
Ross pulls back. “Turn over,” he seems to relent, scent flat. “I won’t make you look at me.”  
   
Words can’t express how grateful he is. Slowly, he twists, settles himself on his belly, face smothered by the veil. Ross sighs, slides a hand over his back, unclips his collar and throws it somewhere to the side. “Relax,” he says, smoothing his thumb over the sensitive skin on the back of his neck, “breathe. This only gets easier.”  
   
So everyone has been saying. “I know.” Tony’s voice is so small. He feels so small. He feels like he’s shrinking, shrivelling, turning to dust, ashes. “Just – do it. Please. Get it over with.”  
   
Ross slumps back, exhaling. “Jesus, Tony, you really know how to get a man going.”  
   
“What do you want?” Tony asks, and his voice breaks. “What more do you want? Do you want me to beg again? I can do that, if you really want. I can tell you that you’ve won, that you’re a big strong alpha. Tell me what you want, I’ll do it.”  
   
A long silence, and Ross says nothing, does nothing. _Hurry up!_ Tony’s screaming internally, _Just do it! Just get it over with!_  
   
Hope has fluttered and died in his chest. Steve isn’t coming. He was never going to come. It was a pretty picture.  
   
“You were good today, did you know that? I know – I know it wasn’t easy for you. I know you must be tired, I can smell it on you. Tomorrow you’ll be hotter, and this won’t be so hard. Do you understand? I won’t touch you tonight. But I will tomorrow. We _have_ to tomorrow.”  
   
Tony lifts his head. “What?”  
   
Ross smells annoyed. “I’m trying to be _nice,”_ he grunts. “The least you could do is show some gratification.”  
   
“I’m not – “ Tony frowns, scrambles up till he’s sitting. He negligée has gotten tangled around his hips and he needs to pull it out from under his ass. “I don’t understand.”  
   
Ross wrinkles his nose. “You stink. Distress, sad, whatever, it’s like fucking a – I can’t do that. I’m not evil, you know. We can wait. Tomorrow your body won’t give a choice, and you won’t smell like – like you hate this.”  
   
_I do hate this._  
   
“Thank you,” Tony breathes, taking in a shaky breath. “Thank you, Ross. Not tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll be – everything you want me to be.”  
   
“Thaddeus.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“You have to call me Thaddeus now. I’m your alpha.”  
   
_Thaddeus Archibald,_ Tony thinks hysterically, _why did your mother hate you so much?_  
   
When Tony doesn’t respond, Ross sighs, throws down a pillow at the end of the bed, settles himself next to Tony. He crosses his legs, wearing only stupid monogrammed sleep pants, and folds his arms. “We could get on well together, you know. This doesn’t have to be difficult.”  
   
_You forced me here,_ Tony thinks. _This is nothing but difficult._  
  
“I’m not talking about – you know, _love._ But we don’t need to antagonise each other. You, you get your license, me, I get… well, I suppose I get your money. And your company. And SI under the power of the US government. But what’s important is that I won’t hurt you. And, I think in time, you might even – after some children, you’ll come to see… I’m not all that bad.”  
   
Tony has gone quiet. There’s a twinging in his belly, the start of heat spreading across his lower stomach, down, down, down.  
   
“What?” Ross grumbles, “You have nothing to say? Nothing to add?”  
   
Tony rolls, so he’s facing the wall. He knows what he wants to say.  
   
_I could never love you. I would push you in front of a speeding truck without a split-second thought. You have taken everything from me. You have ruined my life. I will nuke each and every single child you try to put in my belly._  
   
What he says:  
   
“I just want to be happy, Thaddeus. I just want – to have nice children, and a nice home, and my license, so I can help people. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, truly. And if – if you can help me get that, then love will come.”  
   
Ross churrs, settles, so Tony knows he’s said the right thing. _How could you believe that?_ He thinks incredulously, _how could you actually think I’m telling the truth?_  
   
“Right. That’s what I thought. Wedding nerves… are to be expected. Tomorrow you’ll be hot for it, and it won’t even matter.” It sounds like Ross is saying this more for himself than anything else. Like he’s congratulating himself on being such a _good_ person, who doesn’t fuck their omega when they’re blatantly unwilling.  
   
Here’s something Tony hadn’t considered: they have to share a bed. Ross is punching his pillow and settling down and somehow this is _worse._ It’s worse than being fucked, or molested in a corridor. How will Tony ever sleep again? What happens when he screams in the night? Because he _will._ It’s not like he can control it, he’s jaggy, but at least on his own there would be no one there to hear.  
   
Tony can’t breathe in this room, but he can’t leave. If he leaves, there will be guests to deal with, there will be Ross to handle. If he stays, he has to lie next to Ross, feel his skin next to his skin, listen to his breath –  
   
“Can I – can I get some air?” Tony asks, near hysterical, and Ross must scent his utter distress because he nods hastily.  
   
“Sure,” he mutters, “just don’t jump out the window.”  
   
Tempting, so fucking tempting. Ross wouldn’t be able to stop him in time, that’s for sure. And it would save – save him everything, solve everything. And it would only be a quick fall, four floors up it’s bound to kill him, especially if he aims for the patio. And he’d never have to –  
   
Who the fuck is he kidding? Tony’s never had the guts to kill himself before. And even now, he doesn’t really want to. Who would look out for Steve? Who’s going to make sure Steve gets the best deal? And this isn’t permanent, alphas never are, not really. Tony killed his last alpha eventually. And he beat Pierce. And – and this window, doesn’t even open more than half-way, so he’d have to shimmy his way to death, and that’s just embarrassing.  
   
Eventually, he hears Ross start to snore. Okay. This is okay. One night down, then. Tomorrow, he’ll – well, he won’t have a choice. But today was okay. Soon, it might be better.  
   
   
Romanoff was the one who let him know. Slowly, she’d told Steve: “Sit down. You need to sit down for this, okay?”  
   
Bucky knew it wasn’t good. He knew that before Natasha had even entered, because she smelt of something… ugly. Rancid. Like anger, but mingled with pity and fear and just general negative feelings. She’d found whiskey, from somewhere, which was an achievement because as far as Bucky knows they don’t keep alcohol in the compound _at all._ He wonders who she had to beg that off. He wonders if the news is so bad, T’Challa has let the staff smuggle some in.  
   
“Take this,” she says bluntly, forcing the glass into Steve’s hand. “Drink it. It will help.”  
   
Steve’s watching her warily. “You know this won’t work, right?” He raises one eyebrow dubiously. “Where the hell did you pick this up? I thought they didn’t have – “  
   
Natasha has squared her jaw, crossed her arms. Her scent has peaked, tipped, and is dripping down into something melancholy. “Steve,” she says, and she sound choked. “They got Tony.”  
   
_They got Tony._ Tony. What does Bucky know about Tony?  
   
He knows he weighs about 160lbs, and has mid-length brown hair. He knows he’s clever. He knows he’s not as nice as he lets on. He knows he can pack a punch, and that Winter killed his parents.  
   
He knows Steve adores him, more than anything. Idolises him. He knows that not a day goes by where Steve doesn’t mention him, laugh, ask him to remind him to tell Tony when he sees him again. No joke goes unsaved, no conversation, no interesting tidbit. They’re given a tour of T’Challa’s labs, and Steve makes mental notes for Tony. They lounge in the pool, and Steve talks about how Tony has a pool just like this in California. On a trip into the city, Steve buys Tony a gold-plated armband, beautifully sculpted, one-of-a-kind, and keeps it sitting on his chest of drawers as a reminder. A reminder that Tony still lives and breathes, and one day, Steve will be with him again.  
   
It’s sweet. Bucky thinks it’s sweet. He doesn’t – he can’t, really, feel things that strongly anymore. He pretends. He pretends to laugh, sometimes, or smile. But he can’t really maintain it for long.  
   
About – what, a month ago? About a month ago, Tony had disappeared. Not ‘disappeared’ as in kidnapped, or captured, but Steve could no longer catch his trail. And Steve had been following Tony trail. Religiously. Last they’d had word, he’d been at an Ambassador’s dinner. After that? It goes cold. Steve’s contacts were either unwilling or unknowing to share any more information. They had all heard about the bill; Steve’s gut instinct had been that Tony was underground, or maybe even making his way to them. It was hard to judge, he said, Tony was clever. But he would get in touch, Steve assures, even so. He would definitely get in touch. Definitely.  
   
But he didn’t.  
   
Steve had sent letters; Christ, had Steve sent letters. He would sometimes, furtively, read them to Bucky, ask him if maybe he was coming on too strong, if maybe he had upset Tony in some way, and that’s why he didn’t respond.  
   
Before, Tony had written what felt like every week. Never long, just enough to reassure Steve’s hindbrain.  
   
_I’m okay. Lonely. Bored. Can’t give too much detail in case Ross intercepts_  
  
Or:  
   
_I love you. The ocean looks beautiful. One day you’ll be home, and we can go to the ocean together._  
  
And:  
   
_Nothing is happening here. I have my ear to the pulse, as always. No word on granting your pardon yet, but I’m working on it. Send my love to the team._  
   
Things like that. Nothing grand, not like Steve’s weepy letters, but enough for them to know he was alive, and update them on what’s going on inside.  
   
Bucky doesn’t know Tony that well. He doesn’t really _get_ the modern omegas. And he’s aware that he’s somewhat lacking an ‘oomph’ emotionally. So when the letters stopped, he’d just told Steve that his letters were fine, sure, but maybe Tony just needed space after everything that had happened. That maybe, just maybe, he was a teensy bit resentful that Steve had got to leave with Bucky, while Tony kicked about an empty compound. Bucky had felt bad though, because Steve scent had gone hot with shame, and fear, and panic. He’d chewed his thumb, an old, old tic, one Bucky had recognised from days long ago.  
   
And days had stretched on, with no word. Until now.  
   
“Got Tony?” Steve says, almost scoffing, _almost_ disbelieving. “Oh yeah? And what’s your intel?”  
   
Natasha shuts her eyes, looks away. “It’s on the news,” she says, voice thick. “It’s on the _news._ And all the – the fucking gossip blogs. Don’t you read? Christ, do you even – do you just _mope_ in here? What the hell is wrong with you, how could you not – “  
   
“Natasha,” Bucky says quietly, clearing his throat. “The, uh. The intel. Could you tell us?”  
   
Natasha glares at him, curling her top lip to bare her teeth. “You don’t understand,” she hisses, “none of you understand.”  
   
And Steve is standing, urgent, breathless. “What is it?” He asks, grabbing her shoulders. “Have they hurt him? Have they – “  
   
Bucky gets there first. He just taps in the name, _Tony from Stark,_ into google. It’s the first thing that comes out, breaking news, live tweets, everything. It’s right there.  
   
_Secretary of State, Thaddeus Ross, weds From Stark in secret ceremony – find out more!_  
   
“Oh, my God,” Bucky frowns. That is – that is troubling news, to say the least.  
   
Steve is choking. “What?” He’s gasping. “What? What? Didn’t he – _what?”_  
   
“Sit down,” Natasha barks. “Drink. Didn’t I tell you to drink?”  
   
“No,” Steve says vehemently, shaking his head. “No. No, no, this is a mistake. Or – it’s a trick! Natasha, it’s a trick, don’t you see? This is Ross, playing games with us. This is what he does, he’s a – a manipulator, it’s probably not even Tony – “  
   
“There are pictures.” She says flatly. “The omega is Tony height, Tony’s build, and he’s wearing Tony’s mother’s veil.”  
   
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Steve bursts. “He wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t._ ”  
   
“They must have really had him up against the wall, huh?” Bucky flips through the pictures. A stiff, awkward Ross standing next to a diminutive Tony, head masked from view. A camera flash shows them sitting in a sedan as their driven away, far apart. A blurry, grainy piece show’s Tony, head out of a window in _Ross’s house,_ Christ, the straps of some kind of lacy lingerie just visible, veil flipped over his head, and fuck, that’s pretty damning –  
   
“It’s not his choice, then,” Steve is saying desperately, almost pleading with them. “This wouldn’t be by choice. The bill, it has to be, someone has – said something to him, or tricked him, or convinced him that – “  
   
“Tony’s smart,” Natasha says, taking Steve’s whiskey from his hand. “Maybe he was pressured. Maybe he went willingly.” She side-eyes him, judging, but not judging. “Maybe, after you left – “  
   
“I didn’t leave,” Steve wheezes. “We had an agreement – didn’t he get my letters? Didn’t he get my – “  
   
“No,” Natasha says quietly. “I don’t think he did, somehow.”  
   
Steve’s sent has dipped into something dark and ugly. Like thick tar. Bucky doesn’t like it. Steve isn’t supposed to smell that like. He’s supposed to smell like sunshine, and grass, and fresh laundry, and he’s supposed to be happy so Bucky doesn’t have to.  “He always wanted this,” he mutters, turning, grabbing the tablet from Bucky’s hands. “Ross. Always. I could smell it on him, whenever I met him. Not lust, not really, more like – I don’t know. But I felt it in my gut, I _knew_ Tony wouldn’t be safe – “  
   
“Tony can make his own decisions,” Natasha reminds him. “And he’s more than capable of – “  
   
“Tell me to my face Tony wanted to marry Ross. That he wanted to share his bed. Say it to my face, _Natasha.”_  
   
That would be stupid, Bucky thinks. It’s stupid to say anything to Steve right now, when he’s tipping into rage. Natasha knows this. She just tips up her chin, and Steve’s hindbrain gets the message, and he grunts, pouring over the screen.  
   
Bad idea. He must have seen the bedroom picture, because the tablet goes crashing against the floor. Nothing gets an alpha more riled up than the idea of someone else touching their O. Especially when it’s Ross. And especially when Tony –  
   
Bucky’s chest contracts. Poor Tony.  
   
Steve is slammed against the wall, fists clenched, breathing so hard it sounds like he’s going to burn himself apart. “No,” he grits. “No, no – this wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t how it was going to be, how – “ he turns, desolate. “Ross will never let him go. Never. He has _everything,_ the ball is in his court. How do we – “ Steve slumps, his scent going from _RAGE_ to _sadsadsad_ in less than a second, so fast it give Bucky whiplash. “We were going to get married,” he says, desolate. “I promised him. Didn’t he believe me? Didn’t he – the letters, he – “ and it all seems to click, somewhere, in Steve’s head. Bucky isn’t sure who reaches the conclusion first; Steve _might_ just beat him to it, but he thinks Natasha has known since the moment she saw the news: Tony never got the letters. It wasn’t Tony who responded.  
   
“I’m an idiot,” Steve says flatly. “I’m an idiot.”  
   
Natasha doesn’t say anything, which is pretty telling.  
   
“Could be it was him.” Bucky suggests this weakly; it’s highly unlikely, now. The information Tony ‘leaked’ in drips and drabs was nothing that could ever be used against Ross. It was placating at best. Which it would be, because Ross probably wrote them.  
   
“He didn’t know,” Steve croaks, slumping all the way down the wall. “Don’t you get it? He didn’t _know._ He thought – he must have thought – “  
   
“Tony isn’t stupid,” Bucky says, because he doesn’t _think_ Stark is stupid. He seemed very clever.  
   
“You don’t get it,” Natasha interrupts, scathingly. “How many times did I have to tell you? You can’t just _leave_ and expect everything to be the way it was. He’s _alone_ there, Steve, he’s the barricade. Fuck, the bill,” Natasha spits, crossing her arms. “I knew it, in my gut, it was way too convenient. _Think,_ Steve, think what Ross stands to gain from this, think what Ellis gets with Tony – “  
   
“They always wanted him weapons,” Steve says darkly. “Pierce tried to bid before the Potomac. Tony always said – if they get him, they get SI, no questions asked. And they get his money. And they get his brain.”  
   
“Oh, he was forced,” Natasha says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Of course he was forced, you don’t need to get your panties in a twist about that. Ross has probably been whispering in his ear. Or maybe he wasn’t even subtle, maybe he literally just said, ‘marry me, or I’ll put you in the Raft’, I don’t know why we’re giving him so much credit.”  
   
“I need to go,” Steve blurts, and he’s up on his feet. “I can be there by tomorrow. Fuck Ellis, if we just take him what’s the worst that could happen?”  
   
“They could kill him,” Bucky says, simply. They both look at him. He didn’t realise it was such a loaded statement. “It’s just – they could,” he tries to explain. “Ross owns him now. He owns his property. If we ever go back, he’ll control our cash flow unless someone else funds us. He has what he wants. If we tried to get Tony he could just – kill him. Why does he need him alive?”  
   
Natasha bites her bottom lip and shakes her head slightly, warning. Has Bucky crossed a line? He’s sorry. He doesn’t realise when it’s okay and not okay to say things, sometimes. Steve scent is untenable, shooting up and down and flattening at an abnormal pace. “They won’t – _kill him,”_ Steve manages, with finality. “They won’t do that. Take it back, Buck.”  
   
Bucky nods. “They won’t,” he says. “I’m sure they won’t. He’s still fertile. It would be a waste.”  
   
Natasha’s face is pained, wincing in Bucky’s direction. Steve’s scent, which had been calming, goes haywire. “He’s still _fertile?”_ He’s near screaming, ripping one of the couch pillows and throwing it at the wide glass wall. “ _Fertile?_ Are you fucking out of your – “  
   
Any other alpha, and Bucky would growl, bare his teeth, and just _go at it._ But it’s Steve. Even now, everything in him is screaming _PROTECT!_ , because he’s vulnerable. He’s always been vulnerable. He gave his heart to From Stark, and now look what’s happened. It’s easy to bare his neck, hold up his hands. “I’m sorry, Steve. I’m sorry. I’m being practical. I was wrong. Ross won’t kill Tony.” _Not till he breeds a few pups on him first,_ Bucky thinks, with a sickly feeling in his stomach. He won’t mention that. He won’t.  
   
“If we go in there, we’re legally in the wrong,” Natasha says quietly, soothing. “There is no judge in the worl – there is no judge back home who would rule in your favour, understand? You would never be able to marry. You would never be able to live at home. So if you go there tomorrow, you will make things worse. Tell me you understand. Because if you don’t, I’ll call a guard and have you put in lockdown.”  
   
Steve turns. “But he’s hurting,” he whispers. “Can’t you see it? He’s going to be hurting, now. And Ross – _Jesus,”_ Steve grits, because the idea of Ross and Tony together is sickening. “That’s – _forced,_ it’s not – it’s – “  
   
“I know,” Natasha says quietly. “I know, Steve.”  
   
“What would you want?” Steve asks, desperately. “If it were you. What would you want me to do?”  
   
Natasha considers. “If I were Tony? I would want you to let me play my game. He’ll have a plan, Steve. He’ll have goals. He’s playing the long game, and you swooping in there – yeah, I would be – _he_ would be happy, for a while. But then reality sets in, and he’s still married to Ross, and you’re both pariahs, and he has no money, no business, no _suits._ Think logically.’  
   
Steve turns to face Bucky. “What would you do?” He asks, eyes fraught. “If you were me?”  
   
Bucky’s never had an omega. He’s always had Steve. What would he do if it were Steve?  
   
“I would go,” he says, honestly. “I couldn’t – I wouldn’t be able to bear the thought.”  
   
Steve sets his jaw, and finally sits back down on the couch. “What does the article say?” He asks, now subdued, scent sickly, and sad.  
   
Natasha shakes her head, blunt. “Just that it was a secretive ceremony. The President gave him away. There was a small reception at Ross’s home. There’s a picture – it’s Tony, he’s at the window. Other than that… nothing.”  
   
“Then we wait,” Steve says, like it physically pains him. “Because we don’t have a choice.”  
   
“Yes,” Natasha agrees. “Because we don’t have a choice.”  
   
They both look at Bucky; he’s supposed to nod too, he thinks. “It’s – the right decision,” he says, although he’s not sure. He thinks of Stark, alone, the same sickly smell clinging to his skin that he’d had in Siberia. _Longing._ He had been longing. And he’d stared at Bucky, as they loaded into the quinjet, looked at him like he was evil for taking away Steve, even though he’d agreed.  
   
It’s not sadness, Bucky realises. Steve’s scent isn’t full of _sadsad,_ or distress, or fear, or even anger.  
   
It’s guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so tired i don't want to think how many spelling mistakes there are
> 
> loving your comments! they're the best motivation tbh. love to know what people think about the universe/characters/and steve!!


	5. Chapter 5

Tony dreams of heat and blood.  
   
Sticky redness seeping from between his thighs, his stomach aching. He knows the feeling, he’s lost children before. This time, it’s Ross who's shouting at the doctors, pacing the floor, asking him what he did wrong, why did he do that, why did he kill their child.  
   
And another time, it’s a baby with eight tentacles for legs, cradled in Steve’s arms. “Isn’t he lovely, Tony?” Steve sighs happily. “Our baby. Don’t you want to hold him?”  
   
Tony is bleeding out, fever taking him away, and his mother is stroking hair from his brow.  
   
   
Heat dreams.  
   
They’re the worst.  
   
On the fourth day, Tony wakes up clear. Ross is somewhere, Tony doesn’t know where. Someone has left breakfast on a platter, nothing heavy, no one likes to upset an omegas stomach after a breeding. Tony is in Ross’s bed, in Ross’s house. He realises he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.  
   
He picks at the cheese, has a handful of grapes. He can’t take more than that, his chest is too tight, his stomach flipping knots. He climbs back under the dirty covers and shuts his eyes, pretending to sleep.  
   
Sometime later, Ross enters. “I’m leaving,” he says, fiddling with a suit cuff. “I won’t be back till tomorrow evening. I’ll call ahead and let you know what time I’m coming. I want anything with lamb.”  
   
Tony doesn’t lift his head from the pillow. “Okay,” he says quietly.  
   
“If you need anything, ask John. You have my personal cell, but only call in emergencies. You know not to act up,” he says casually, not even having to stress the threat. “Be a good boy.”  
   
“Okay,” Tony says again. Ross pauses, looking down at him, and after an awkward moment leans down to press a dry kiss to his cheek.  
   
   
Tony sleeps the rest of the day.  
   
He always does, after a heat, except Steve used to sleep with him. They’d curl up together in the wide bed they shared, not even talking, and Steve would work, draw, browse his tablet while Tony slept. He would keep one hand on the back of Tony’s neck and just stroke him there, always. It was the height of indulgence. After all those years with Obie, Tony thought he was the luckiest omega in the world.  
   
Tony feels sick. In his stomach, in his chest. Heartsick. He mourns everything he’s lost.  
   
He just wants it to be the way it used to.  
   
Downstairs is still a mess from the reception. Ross didn’t tell him explicitly to clear it, but it will have been implied. A given. It’s his job now. It’s his only job.  
   
It takes about three hours. Tony is good at cleaning.  
   
He isn’t hungry, so he doesn’t eat dinner.  
   
He goes to sleep.  
   
   
He wakes up.  
   
The house is tidy, so he doesn’t need to clean it.  
   
He’s not hungry, so he doesn’t need to eat breakfast.  
   
He lies in bed. He thinks about maybe fantasising, drawing up sketches in his mind, new propulsers, wild ideas for suits that even he can’t pull off but would love to try. It becomes too painful. It’s no longer something Tony is at liberty to do.  
   
He sleeps.  
   
Ross’s aide – John – tells him through the door that Ross will be home at 11PM, and he reminds Tony about the roast lamb. He says there’s some in the freezer.  
   
Tony climbs out of bed.  
   
He scrubs his face and shaves.  
   
He washes his hair, and covers himself in perfume.  
   
He dresses in fresh clothes, and, after a moment of thought, wears his collar.  
   
It takes three hours to slow cook the lamb.  
   
Then he sits at the table in the beautiful oak kitchen and watches the clock.  
   
Watches the clock.  
   
Watches the clock.  
   
He jumps up when he hears Ross’s key in the door. Smooths down his shirt, flattens his hair. Ross strides in and startles, as if shocked to remember he’s there. “Oh,” he says, “you.”  
   
“Me.”  
   
“Do you have good news for me?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Too early to tell.”  
   
“Soon, then.”  
   
“Soon.”  
   
Ross throws down his briefcase and goes to the fridge, helps himself to a beer. “Something smells good,” he says, “is that the lamb?”  
   
Tony nods, quickly. “Yeah. Slow-cooked. I made potatoes – I don’t know if you like potatoes, but… I made them.”  
   
“Potatoes are good. I’m starving.” Ross takes a long drink from the beer, cold, moisture dripping off the green glass. He looks down, and then looks up, again like he’s just remember Tony exists. “Do you want one?”  
   
“I didn’t know if I was allowed.”  
   
“Allowed?” Ross snorts. “I’m not a puritan, you can drink Tony, I won’t stop you.”  
   
In which case, Tony pours himself some wine. He used to be an alcoholic. It’s not even something he thinks about much these days; he supposes he was high-functioning. But what else do you call it when you spend all day drinking wine? Alcoholic seems most fitting. “Did you have a good day?” He asks.  
   
“No, not really. When will dinner be served?”  
   
Tony looks at the clock. “I can have a plate ready in five minutes.”  
   
“You do that. I’ll take it in my study.”  
   
Tony nods. There’s a lump in his throat. Fuck, again? So soon? He turns away, busies himself with the oven. It’s stupid, so stupid. There’s a part of him that actually wants Ross to talk to talk to him – Tony hasn’t spoken to anyone in days.  
   
“Wait,” he blurts, turning. “Wait. How – how was work?”  
   
Ross narrows his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”  
   
Tony shrugs. “Just curious,” he says weakly, trying to smile.  
   
Ross waves a hand. “You shouldn’t be concerning yourself with all that,” he says, “you’ve got a few months where you don’t have to worry about all that junk at all, okay? So enjoy it.”  
   
Enjoy himself? _Enjoy himself?_  
   
“I was thinking – “ what was he thinking? He doesn’t even know. “I was thinking – if I could get some things. I don’t have much. I mean – “ he can’t read Ross’s face, and it’s driving him crazy. “You know, I’m home here all day, and I don’t have much to do. Do you think I could – it wouldn’t even be my old things, new ones, but books? And a phone, maybe? I don’t know, I mean,” Tony busies himself with plates, “whatever you think. I don’t know. It’s up to you.”  
   
 “You must think I’m stupid.”  
   
“No.” _Yes._ “It’s not – you can check the phone! In fact, yeah. I’ll let you check my internet history, everything. Just don’t leave me alone with daytime TV,” Tony laughs weakly. “Give me something to do.”  
   
“No phone. No computer. I know what you’re like, Tony. You think I’ve forgotten you manoeuvred your way out of a cave with a box of scraps? I’m not stupid.” Ross swigs from his beer. “In fact, I can’t believe you would even ask. Fucking hell, Tony. _No.”_  
   
So Tony relents, appeases. “Then just something to do,” he begs. “Anything. I could – redecorate?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Am I allowed to leave by myself?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Ro – Thadd. C’mon. Don’t be unreasonable.”  
   
“I think you’ll find, with your history, I’m being incredibly reasonable.” Tony flinches – it’s not even on purpose, he’s just feeling a bit jagged right now – and Ross softens. “Look,” he says, “ask me what you want. Something – innocent. Like, I don’t know,” Ross clicks his fingers, trying to dredge up suggestions, “clothes? What about – oh! What about a spa thing? C’mon, it’s only been a few days, you can’t be like this already.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony nods, turning back to Ross’s food. “It’s fine, I’ll find some way to entertain myself. I’m just adjusting, that’s all.” Lie, lie, lie. He hopes Ross takes the bait, because he’s so worn thin he’s not sure he can really commit to the charade tonight.  
   
“Sure. And hey, maybe this is all just – nesting, you know?” Ross is getting bored, Tony can tell. “Look, I’m starving, so can you just bring it in when it’s done?”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony croaks. “It’s coming. Right away.”  
   
   
Tony delivers the food ten minutes later. Ross barely looks up from his papers, so Tony just places the meal on the coffee table. He hangs around, awkwardly, hands clasped in front until Ross looks up, irritated. “What?” He grunts. “You can go, I don’t need anything else.”  
   
“No, I know,” Tony says quickly. “I was just thinking – about the spa. I would like that. It might be nice before my next heat, you know? To look – good for you.” He almost winces. Almost. He manages to get it out in one.  
   
Ross goes a bit lax with lust. “Oh sure,” he says casually. “Ask John to set up the appointment. Get whatever, there’s no budget.”  
   
Of course not. Ross is a billionaire, now.  
   
   
Another day.  
   
Tony is chopping onions, watching TV. “ _And – and that’s not all, folks. Yes, that’s right, because last week everyone’s favourite newt – I mean, sorry, ‘omega’, From Stark, was married to the alpha of his dreams – you guessed it, Secretary Ross himself. Now – hold on, hold on.”_  
  
The audience is laughing, the comedian flapping his hands to get them to quiet. “ _Hold on now, cut him some slack. No matter what we think of him, let’s all take a moment of silence to imagine this – “_ the camera cuts to a picture of Tony, taken about three years ago, stripped down to his undersuit and helping a little boy to his feet. It was taken at an opportune moment. His hair is windswept, he’s sweaty in all the right places, the suit clings to his skin. Steve had kept a printed copy of it on his desk. “ _Being married to_ this.”  
   
They show Ross, old, ageing, wearing dress uniform that shows a paunch. They caught him at a bad angle; he’s not that fat, and he isn’t that old in real life. But it gets a big laugh. Tony accidentally slices his finger on a knife. It burns. He loses track of what the comedian is saying. When he turns back, they’re playing a crappy cartoon of Tony, face bored, being rammed from behind by a red in the face Ross, who pumps for two seconds then asks, ‘ _did you finish?’_  
   
Hysterical. Tony turns it off.  
   
   
He wakes up.  
   
He lies in bed.  
   
He cleans the spotless house.  
   
He sits on a spotless couch.  
   
He watches TV.  
   
He goes back to bed.  
   
He cooks dinner.  
   
He sleeps.  
   
And repeat.  
   
   
He knows he isn’t pregnant, but he takes the test anyway.  
   
Omega bodies can be funny. The last times, he knew within the first two weeks. He had a craving for strawberries – an abnormal craving. As in, he sat crying and ate six boxes of strawberries, threw them up, then ate more.  
   
He carried the first for six months. It’s not supposed to happen at six months. He had already painted it’s bedroom, and picked out it’s clothes, and had Obie put away cash in a trust. When it happened, Obie had actually tried to be kind, because they had only been married a year, and it was bound to happen. Eventually, kindness had seeped into irritation. “I don’t know why you’re crying,” he’d snapped. “You never even got to hold it. Some mothers lose their kids in war, and you’re moping because – hey. Hey, where are you going? What did I say?”  
   
Number two was only four months, but Tony had been at work when it happened. Well, he’d been at SI – he wasn’t officially on the payroll back then. Everyone had known. Obie was furious.  
   
Number three was born dead.  
   
After that, Obie had just stopped trying. Tony, once, in a pique of anger had told Obie that it was his fault, that whatever he messed around with when he was younger had damaged him, and that’s why Tony’s children died. It was probably true; his mom had lost children, lots of children. Tony was the only one that ever survived. It’s the work Howard and Obie did, too much nuclear crap, Tony thinks.  
   
Obie didn’t agree. Tony was bruised so badly, after, that he couldn’t walk on his own for a week, and didn’t leave the house for another month.  
   
Test is negative, as if there was ever any doubt. At least Ross will stop badgering him now.  
   
He has a guy. Someone who could get him things, quietly. Tony trusts him, but he has no way of getting in contact now. There’s no doubt in Tony’s mind, if he gets pregnant, that he’s going to get rid of it; thing is, it’s not of a matter of _if,_ it’s a matter of when. And he doesn’t want to leave anything to chance.  
   
   
He had to time it perfectly.  
   
John spends most of his day sitting outside Ross’s office, at his own desk. Tony can’t use that computer; if he did, John would definitely see him. His best bet is to enter the office and use Ross’s laptop, but there’s only a slither of time in the day where that’s a viable option. Obviously, John needs to use the bathroom sometime, but there’s also the weekly food delivery. Ross doesn’t like Tony lifting the heavy shopping – thanks, Ross – so he gets John to do it instead.  
   
It’s 14:00PM on a Wednesday. Tony hears the bell ring, and silently puts down his washing and moves to the office. He waits till he hears John’s footsteps, hears the door open, and then slips into Ross’s study.  
   
It’s unlocked. Tony is technically allowed in here; it’s not a big secret or anything. He cleans it – with John watching, to make sure he doesn’t try and access the computer, or anything more sensitive. He has ten minutes until John starts to wonder where he is. But that’s fine. Tony’s a genius.  
   
If Ross was clever, his password would a random string of numbers that he keeps written nowhere and only physically held in his brain. But Ross isn’t really that clever, and he’s _old,_ and he’s fallen into the trap of thinking that having a home computer means that it’s actually private. Tony had found the password written on an old sticky note stuck on the carpet beneath the desk while he was cleaning. The kicker? It’s ‘ross2019’.  
   
Tony is almost upset he didn’t get to test his skills, even if Ross is still using Windows 7. For the first time, he has the world at his fingertips. Only ten minutes, but still. For a fleeting ten minutes, he’s in his element. He has _power._  
   
He knows the email by heart. _Delivery, discreet. Alpha CANNOT know – will meet at Old Country Springs spa_  
   
He gives his reference code, the address, the date, and doesn’t leave a name. The reply is automatic, instantaneous: _carrier: blue sweatshirt, neon pink hat._ As usual, the service is prompt, anonymous, clean and simple. Tony has been using them for years, and they’ve never let him down. Payment is taken from his account masked by a bill for a cover company that supposedly sells designer perfume.  
   
There are people who would have him arrested for what he’s just done. Birth control is considered obscene by some – not all, just some. It’s legal, with an alpha’s consent. But there are people like Tony, whose alpha’s want children, or who can’t bear to pop out another baby, who need to go under the radar.  
   
While he’s here, he could contact someone. Anyone. There’s no use even attempting to get FRIDAY on here, but he could –  
   
Steve, maybe.  
   
_If Steve wanted you to contact him, he would have stopped the wedding._  
   
He might not have known?  
   
_Fine. Then he’s had three weeks to get in touch._  
   
Okay, good point. Still, what’s the harm in –  
   
“You shouldn’t be in here.”  
   
Tony freezes. His mouth is dry, his neck is prickling, the door is open and John is just standing there, looking at him.  
   
“I – “ he swallows air. “I was just – the keyboard was dusty, so I – and I didn’t mean – he left it logged on, I – “  
   
“Get out.”  
   
Tony agrees, nodding. “I was just cleaning,” he blatantly lies, and John clearly doesn’t believe him for a second.  
   
   
Tony normally waits for Ross to find him, on the evenings he actually comes home. Tonight, though, his heart is in his throat. He doesn’t know what John has said, and he doesn’t know what Ross will do.  
   
Because oh, Ross makes all the right noises. He pretends to be kind, and says he’ll never hurt Tony, but that’s not _real._ If Ross is going to punish him, he wants it out of the way. He wants – he wants a quick beating, a pinch on the neck, maybe a few days without food, whatever. Anything. Just rip it off like a band-aid, no dragging it out over weeks with the anxiety in his throat. Obie would. Or he would say, ‘I’m going to have to punish you now, aren’t I?’ like it was _his_ burden to bear. And the punishment would start, and Tony would think it was finished, but then Obie would come out without something else and Tony would never know –  
   
Or hey, maybe Obie was just a sadistic bastard, who knows.  
   
He’s waiting by the door, pacing. Ross is usually home by eleven; it’s almost twelve. Maybe it’s because of what Tony did? Or maybe – maybe he’s planning some kind of elaborate torture, maybe he going to have Tony arrested, thrown in Raft after all, and all of this will have been for –  
   
The door opens. Ross steps in. It’s been raining, and his coat is wet. Tony takes it, quickly, flaps it dry and hangs it on the rack. “You’re eager tonight,” Ross frowns. “What’s gotten into you?”  
   
“Me?” Tony asks, mouth like the fucking Sahara. “Nothing. No, nothing. I just – “ what kind of game is this? “ – am glad to see you.”  
   
Ross raises an eyebrow, but he smells quietly pleased. “Well then,” he says, “that’s nice. I got you a present.”  
   
Here it is. Tony’s heart is going to beat out of his chest. Ross must smell the utter fear on him, because he looks confused. “Calm down,” he says, “you don’t need to be worried. Here,” Ross drops his briefcase and rifles around his pockets. “Hold on, I think I packed it in the bag. Can we go the kitchen?”  
   
Tony is picturing some kind of sadistic chastity belt, or an electroshock collar. It’s just the kind of thing Ross would do, ease him into it, make him feel at home, and then snap him, like a venus fly trap. He stands, watching, waiting, while Ross makes a frustrated noise, flipping through papers. “Where the hell did I put it? I swear I just had it a second ago, I – oh! Here we go.” He pulls out a thin sheet of metal from inside his case, holds it out, and it’s not, it won’t –  
   
It’s a phone.  
   
“You were saying that – well, I don’t trust you enough. Which is understandable. But I had one of my aides look at this, and it’s fully traceable. It will tell me if you try anything funny, so don’t try anything funny. But here. I guess you can – listen to music? Or take selfies, or I don’t know, whatever it is omegas do with their phones.”  
   
“Oh,” Tony chokes. “Oh. I thought – I don’t understand.”  
   
“I won’t lie, I thought you’d be more grateful.”  
   
“I am!” Tony blurts, hurriedly. “I am, I really am. I just thought – “  
   
Ross narrows his eyes. “What?”  
   
“Nothing. This is – fantastic. Seriously, thank you, Thadd, I – “ Tony laughs a little, more with utter and complete relief. John hasn’t told him. Ross doesn’t know. He stands on his toes and gives him a quick, fleeting hug. He goes stiff, pats Tony awkwardly on the back, and then refuses to make eye contact.  
   
“I’ll take dinner in the study,” he says shortly, and briskly walks away. Tony is safe.  
   
   
John is the one to drive him to the spa.  
   
For a while, they sit in silence, until it gets too much and Tony has to ask.  
   
“You didn’t tell him,” he accuses.  
   
“No,” John says, characteristically short.  
   
“Can I ask why the fuck not?”  
   
John meets his eyes in the mirror. “Did you want me too?”  
   
“No! No, I – what do you want from me?”  
   
John looks at him for a time, then fixes back on the road. “Consider it my insurance. And, for what it’s worth – I don’t particularly relish the idea of you being buried underwater on the word of one man. Some of us still remember everything you’ve done. The good things, I mean.”  
   
Tony is silent. “Thanks,” he manages.  
   
“Don’t mention it. And don’t expect leniency next time. I’m not that nice.”  
   
   
Tony meets an omega in a blue sweater and neon pink hat inside the lounge.  
   
He sits, picks at a magazine. “It’s warm today, don’t you think?” He begins, flicking through the pages.  
   
“Way too warm for January,’ the omega agrees, taking off her hat to fan her face.  
   
“I think they need air-con in here,” Tony says, simply, and the omega nods.  
   
“Hey, just a warning – the sixth toilet cubicle is broken, so don’t go in there. I got stuck without help, if you know what I mean.”  
   
“Thanks,” Tony smiles. “I appreciate the warning.”  
   
She sits for another two minutes, and then leaves. Three minutes after that, Tony is slipping into the sixth cubicle, opening up the toilet pump, and dragging out the baggy of five beautiful little pills, each one to be taken in a week’s advance of a heat, enough to see him through the next five months.  
   
Mission success.  
   
   
He wakes up, some days later, with slick between his thighs.  
   
It takes a while to register. It’s warm, but that’s not unusual. He turns, smacks his lip, and rubs his cheek against the pillow. It’s nice, soft and scratchy. He’s all soft and scratchy, all over, down to his toes, and he’s so –  
   
The fact of the matter hits him like a sledgehammer. He’s in heat. He’s early, way too early, and his little baggy of pills is untouched, stuck behind the fridge.  
   
Fuck.  
   
He scrambles with the sheets, trying to kick them loose, and manages to get to his feet, weak at the knees. He throws open the windows to let in freezing air and starts to strip the bed, frantic, because – because if he hides this, Ross won’t come back from his trip, and he’ll miss the heat, and he won’t – they won’t have to – and there won’t be –  
   
His legs are trembling so hard he has to stop, leaning against the bed-post. What does he do? What can he do? Shower, freezing shower, just wash the heat off of him, out of him down the drain, and Ross will never have to know, and Tony won’t have to –  
   
John finds him, bundling sheets in his arms. Sweating, dripping, pupils blown and frantic. He drops the laundary, shakes his head. “John,” he pleads, “don’t tell him. Please, don’t tell him. I need more time. I just need some more time, I can’t – not this time, please, not this time.”  
   
John is unmoved. “He needs to know,” is all he says, and when he leaves, he locks the door behind him.  
   
   
A week later.  
   
“Any news?” Ross asks casually over dinner. It’s dinner. Tony must have – yes, he must have cooked dinner, and now they’re eating it together, like alpha and omega.  
   
“What?” He asks, vacantly.  
   
Ross eyes him, up and down, shakes out his paper. “You.” He says, “Any news? Feeling tender? Craving anything in particular?”  
   
Oh. “No,” Tony says, looking down. “I don’t think – I think I would know by now.” He adds, “I was sick for two weeks straight, the last times. I always know.”  
   
Ross harrumphs. “Well,” he says, dispassionately. “There’s always next month.”  
   
“Next month,” Tony promises, and feels sick to his stomach.  
   
   
He hadn’t meant to drink so much.  
   
Three bottles of wine. Bloated, vomiting into the toilet basin at 3AM. Loving life.  
   
“Am I to take this as a sign of some happy news?” John says dourly, standing in the doorway.  
   
“Fuck off.” Tony spits into the basin, hucks up vomit from the back of his throat. “I’m not pregnant.”  
   
“I figured,” John says casually. “There are three empty wine bottles downstairs. And I know what you were doing at that spa.”  
   
Tony turns. Fuck. John must scent the sudden spike in his fear, because he says, “I won’t tell him. But you’re running out of chances. Once for breaking into the office, twice for trying to – “ John’s mouth twists with displeasure, “seek contraception. Three times, for the stunt with the sheets. You can’t keep doing this.”  
   
Maybe it’s because Tony is drunk, and weak, and so fucking tired, but he finds himself being honest. “I can’t,” he croaks. “I can’t have his baby.”  
   
“That’s not really my problem,” John says dispassionately.  
   
“If you tell him,” Tony asks, dragging a hand over the back of his mouth and slumping against the bowl, “what happens to me?”  
   
“I imagine you could kiss goodbye to your license. He might send you away. One of those O facilities, maybe.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “No,” he slurs, “no, no he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.”  
   
“I know him better than you do. Stop trying to fight this. It will be a lot easier for you if you just give him what he wants.”  
   
“I can’t,” Tony croaks.  
   
“What’s the problem?” John says, irritated. “It’s just a baby. You’ve got to have kids eventually, why does it matter if it’s Ross?”  
   
“Get out.”  
   
“Do you need help standing?”  
   
“I said, _get out!_ I’m the omega of the house, and you’re a fucking steward, and I’m telling you to _get out!”_ Tony kicks his legs futilely, bares his teeth.  
   
John leaves, as silent as he arrived.  
   
   
It’s dinner. Tony has made… some kind of spaghetti. He’s pushing it around his plate. Ross is sitting opposite, flicking through a tablet that Tony isn’t allowed to touch.  
   
“Can I ask you a question?” Ross says, looking up. “I mean – if it’s not too personal.”  
   
Tony frowns, tired. “Sure.” Did he put too much garlic? It’s hard to tell, he likes garlic. Steve liked garlic, but Tony never really cooked for Steve. He would sometimes, as a treat, and he always said he liked the garlic, which was good, because that was something they had in common.  
   
“At night, you don’t – you don’t sleep so good.”  
   
Tony looks up. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Is it bothering you?”  
   
Ross shrugs a shoulder. “Not immensely. I’m not home long enough for it to make a difference.”  
   
Tony goes back to his plate. “Okay.”  
   
Ross sucks his lips and wiggles a finger around his teeth to dislodge a piece of food. “Can I ask what you dream about?”  
   
Tony stills. “Combat. New York. Afghanistan.”  
   
“It’s a shame we put omegas through that, don’t you think?”  
   
“Yes,” Tony says by rote. “It’s sad.”  
   
“You say his name,” Ross says casually. “When you’re sleeping. _Steve, Steve._ You think I don’t notice, but I do.”  
   
Tony hadn’t realised. Genuinely. He rarely dreams of Steve anymore. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ll try not to.”  
   
“I’d rather know why you say his name, actually.” Ross is being casual, but his voice is laced with – not good. Possessive, jealous, all those nice little buzzwords.  
   
Tony needs to –  
   
Make Ross believe him. He needs to… manipulate.  
   
But he’s really, really tired.  
   
“I didn’t realise,” Tony manages, muted. “I promise I’ll try not to.”  
   
Ross leans back in his chair, still picking at his teeth. “It doesn’t bother me,” Ross lies, airily. “I suppose I’m just – worried for you. And how you’re adjusting.”  
   
“Adjusting?”  
   
“To this. To me. To your – new life.”  
   
“That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”  
   
Ross sighs heavily. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is – “ he throws down his napkin. “I don’t know. I don’t really know what to say to you.”  
   
“Thanks.”  
   
“Don’t you have any friends?”  
   
Tony frowns, confused. “What?”  
   
“Friends. You know. Omega – friends. Like in films, or whatever. Get your nails done, drink wine together, talk about… things. I don’t know. I’m happy to pay, you know,” Ross offers, nodding, “it’s not a problem. I can set you up with a card. John can chaperone. It might be good for you to – talk to someone.”  
   
“I don’t have friends,” Tony says flatly. Natasha used to be his friend. Sometimes they would do all those nice, stereotypical things Ross is describing. But not often. Neither of them were very good at being omegas. He cut off contact with a lot of his old crowd after Obie died, for obvious reasons, and a lot of them stopped talking to him after the third baby, when he lost his mind. So no. He doesn’t have friends.  
   
“No need to get curt,” Ross says, being curt. “It was just a simple question.”  
   
“You know I don’t have friends. You know all my friends are war criminals. You know I have no one. You’re only asking because you like making me feel like shit.” Tony stands, and slams his chair under the table.  
   
Ross is staring at him. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he blusters. “After everything I’ve done for you, you can’t – “  
   
“You’re right,” Tony sneers, “I’m so sorry, _alpha._ I promise I’ll be a good boy, okay?” Tony cups his throat, shuts his eyes. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, “I can’t breathe, I can’t – _breathe_ in here. I can’t _stay_ here anymore, it’s been two months and I haven’t – “  
   
Ross raises his eyebrows. “Are you quite done?” He says, bored, “because I have a conference call in the study.”  
   
So Tony has to swallow his anger, and his embarrassment, and his pain. He nods. “Yeah,” he tries to smile. “Sorry. Right. Of course, I’ll just – tidy up. Who's calling?”  
   
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Ross drawls, sardonically.  
   
   
Tony is losing his will to fight.  
   
It’s okay, it’s all still okay. Ross hasn’t hurt him, yet. So, he isn’t as stupid as Tony thought, but that’s not bad; it was maybe too optimistic for him to expect Ross to trust him just because he stuck his dick in him a few times.  
   
What Tony needs to do is go on the offensive. He needs to get some lingerie, shave his damn legs, and make Ross trust him again. It’s what he needs to do. It’s what he _has_ to do, if he wants to be privy to Ross’s conversations. If he wants any say in what happens next.  
   
But God, the thought of –  
   
In _Ross’s bed,_ he can’t –  
   
He can’t. Maybe it makes him selfish, or weak. But he can’t force himself to – to make himself appealing, because he doesn’t want to be appealing. He hates the lacy things Ross has bought him, he hates the thought of their skin touching, it disgusts him. It makes him feel like there are ants in his bones.  
   
And he’s just so, so tired.  
   
   
So, a week later.  
   
“I married a ten,” Ross is snapping. They’re in his study. Ross called Tony down to…  
   
Shout at him, apparently.  
   
“I married an omega that stopped alphas in the fucking street. Now look at you. Jesus, Tony, when was the last time you showered?”  
   
Tony can’t smell himself. He doesn’t respond.  
   
“Can’t you talk? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself? Can’t you – at the very least – keep our house tidy? Is that too much to fucking ask?”  
   
Tony is so tired.  
   
“I haven’t been feeling great,” he admits. “I think I’m just a bit sick. Maybe – just for this week, we can get a cleaner and I can sleep?”  
   
“It’s your job,” Ross snaps. “You’re always telling me you’re bored, and now, suddenly, you don’t want to do anything? For God’s sake Tony, it’s not my job to parent you. I am busy. You need to take care of yourself, I can’t wipe your ass for you.”  
   
Tony nods. “I know,” he mumbles, “I know that.”  
   
“Stop that. Stop that stupid meek little act, I don’t buy it. Go away, take a shower, sort yourself out. I don’t want to see your face for the rest of the week.”  
   
   
He could just leave.  
   
He could just stop feeling like this. Get up, go, never come back. What would happen?  
   
He belongs to Ross, so technically he would be stealing himself. If he could get to Wakanda –  
And jeopardize it for Steve? Ruin the relations? Ross would never let him be free again, probably. But does that even matter? He’s already a slave.  
   
_License,_ a tired part of Tony’s brain reminds him, _he’ll give you your license._  
   
It doesn’t matter. Tony’s too tired.  
   
   
The doctor shines a light in his pupils, takes his blood pressure, tests his reactions, listens to his heart.  
   
“Sometimes,” he says, taking the stethoscope from his ears, “omegas can – Mr Secretary of State, they’re not like us. What we consider day to day decisions can be very stressful, they’re a lot more – not fragile, not at all, but all things considered we should always grant them the benefit of the doubt. They live to please us, you know. I don’t think Of Ross is doing this purely to upset you, are you Of Ross?”  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything.  
   
“Does he have a history of this?” The doctor asks. “I don’t have his records yet.”  
   
“Of this? He’s – jaggy, sometimes. He has nightmares, but they never seemed to bother him before. I think – there was a note, something about an episode after he lost his third child. But nothing since then, in fact – “ Ross sounds almost grudgingly respectful “ – considering he’s seen combat since, it’s never seemed to have been an issue.”  
   
Of course, what the doctor latches onto is this: “His third child you say? I see. Well, that explains a lot.”  
   
“It does?” Ross asks, sounding about as confused as Tony.  
   
“Of course. Of Ross, how many heats have you had with your alpha here?”  
   
“Two.”  
   
“Just two,” the doctor says gently. “And so, you know there’s no reason to be so upset if you don’t carry straight away? The odds are 1-in-3, you’re still statistically very safe.”  
   
If Tony wasn’t so exhausted, he would roll his eyes.  
   
“You think – that’s it?” Ross asks, incredulous.  
   
“Sure,” the doctor says confidently. “This is a big change for Of Ross. And it’s _very_ common – he wants to live up to your expectations, he’s probably lonely knocking about this big old house with nothing to keep him occupied. What he wants is a baby, but – “ the doctor sighs, ruffles Tony’s lank, greasy hair, then wipes it down on his coat. “But so far, bad luck.”  
   
“That doesn’t really sound like him.”  
   
“He could be bored. It’s possible. I know we like to keep our omegas in leisure, but I know Of Ross used to be a very busy boy. I would recommend three walks a day and a big breakfast. Between you and me – you can afford to get some help. Let someone else cook the dinners. Maybe Of Ross can do something fun, like painting. Would you like that Of Ross?”  
   
Tony remains catatonic.  
   
The doctor frowns. “And – maybe I’ll prescribe something too,” he adds.  
   
   
John doesn’t seem happy with the new state of affairs. “I don’t know why you can’t cook,” he says, resting a tray with food and pills by Tony’s bed. “I have enough work as it is.”  
   
When Tony doesn’t respond, he grabs his by the shoulders and sits him up. “Don’t make me feed you,’ he says, “I swear to God, I will force this spoon down your throat if I have to.”  
   
“Leave it,” Tony croaks, hoarse. “I’ll eat.”  
   
“No, you won’t. And not without me. Ross says I have to sit here until you finish of it, so get started.”  
   
“I’m not hungry. I ate last night.”  
   
“No you didn’t.”  
   
“What day is it?”  
   
John raises an eyebrow. “Today? Friday.”  
   
“And – I’ve lost track,” Tony mumbles, “how long till my heat?”  
   
“Week and a bit, if you’re on time. Why?”  
   
Tony curls down, wraps the blanket over his head, and doesn’t move until he hears John finally relent, get up, and leave.  
   
   
“Get up,” Ross is snapping. “Get out of bed. John tells me you haven’t left this room in three days. Get up.”  
   
“Are you listening to me, Tony? I know you can hear me. Get up. You can kiss goodbye to your license if you keep being so insubordinate.”  
   
“This is just – absolutely ridiculous. Could you be more dramatic? Get up. _Get up!”_  
   
_Ha ha,_ Tony thinks drowsily, _you can’t make me do anything._  
   
Ross puffs around the room ineffectually for a few minutes, then decides to take matters into his own hands. “Up,” he’s saying, ripping off the bedsheets, “up, get up, you fucking lazy bitch, get up, _get up!”_  
   
Tony lies there, curled on his side, unmoving. He blinks slowly. Ross is staring him down.  
   
But he looks away, blinks before Tony can break. He just leaves, slamming the door behind him, and Tony knows he won that battle.  
   
   
“Tony,” Ross says, standing in the doorway. “Get your coat and come downstairs.”  
   
Tony is still in his sleep things. He slept in today. And yesterday. And the day before that, he thinks.  
   
“Are we going somewhere?” He asks. They haven’t gone anywhere together. Tony only goes on walks, and even then only when he can be bothered to ask John. “I haven’t showered. I should…” he trails off. He doesn’t want to go anywhere with Ross. He doesn’t want to have people see him hanging off his arm.  
   
“It doesn’t matter,” Ross says briskly, “no one will see us anyway. Wear what you like.”  
   
Tony stumbles out of bed. “Are we walking?” He asks, flapping to try and find some shoes.  
   
“No, we’re taking the chopper. Don’t worry, we won’t be long.” Ross sounds – what is that? Sad? Or maybe irritated? God, it’s so hard to tell with him now, all his sounds and smells blur together.  
   
“Happy memories,” Tony blurts, grinning.  
   
Ross turns and looks at him. He’s wearing a receiver, clipped to his ear. “What?” He says, over the chopper’s blades.  
   
Tony blinks. When – what? When did they get in the air? “Happy memories,” Tony repeats. “Because you caught me trying to cross the border and arrested me in this chopper, remember?”  
   
Ross grunts, like Tony’s being particularly irritating, and looks out the window. It’s weird, it took Obie longer than this to get sick of him. And even then, Tony had to lose three babies just to get him to stop sleeping with him. But Ross seems to have soured pretty quickly – not sure whether that’s a good thing or not.  
   
“Where are we going?” He asks idly, when he clocks he doesn’t even know why they’re in the air. “Is it a trip?”  
   
“Something like that. We won’t be long.”  
   
They travel over towns and fields, countryside spilling out beneath them. There must be so many happy people, down there. Happy people can still exist. They _do_ exist, living their lives without a blade at their neck.  
   
After a time, he starts to recognise the ground, the layout of the earth. He’s seen it hundred of times before, flown above it. “Are we – “ he twists, looks at Ross. “Are we going home?”  
   
“Home? No. We’re going to the old HQ. Avengers, that is. I thought you might like to pick up some things.”  
   
Ross looks away, quickly, and Tony realises he is victorious. His little war of attrition – although not intentional, or in fact, even a war he knew he was part of – has been won. Ross has caved, and now Tony gets to reap the rewards. They disembark, Tony’s legs weak beneath him, and the looming shadow of his old home reaches up above him.  
   
His alpha leans against the metal of the helicopter and lights up a cigarette. “You have half an hour,” he says. “Take what you need. I’ll need to check through it for security reasons, and make sure it can fit. No life-size self-portraits or anything.”  
   
The grass has grown so long, all the way up to his knees. “I thought – I wasn’t allowed.”  
   
“Yeah, well, you are now. Quickly,” Ross says tersely, “I haven’t got all day.”  
   
Tony stumbles forward slightly. “I can just – get things?”  
   
“You need to hurry up before I change my mind.”  
   
The doors still open to his signature but the outside walls have been vandalised. That’s not good. He thought his estate would at least take care of the building, Steve will need it when he gets back. Inside is – fucking hell, it’s untouched from the day Tony left. When he fled for the border, he’d packed the bare minimum. Everything sentimental was left in its place – hidden – in a box in Tony’s wardrobe.  
   
“FRIDAY?” He tries, tentatively. There’s no response. But when he goes to the elevator, it opens and finds his floor wordlessly, so Tony’s guess is sound is disabled. It’s nice, knowing he’s not entirely alone. “I miss you, FRIDAY.”  
   
“I haven’t been feeling great,” he says, making his to his suite. “Things are weird. I got married, I don’t know if you heard.” His room is still a mess, unsurprisingly. The smell of home hits him, so hard it almost bowls him over. _Homehomehomegoodhome._ He’s crying, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. The medication has made him a bit weird.  
   
He resists the urge to curl up in a ball in the centre of his bed. He rips off the duvet and pillows and bundles them in a pile – he’ll take them with him, if he can. He finds his old pictures, the portrait of his parents and Jarvis. He collects some books, his tablet – if Ross will let him – and some of Steve’s old shirts, buried away for the days when Steve was away and Tony feeling lazy.  
   
He lets himself smell them. Soft, fresh laundry, green grass, vanilla and sweat. _Stevestevesteve,_ his hindbrain crows. It brings the ache back full force, like a tidal wave, and Tony wishes he hadn’t indulged. He’d numbed himself, recently. He’d managed to push everything back, force himself into survival catatonia. Now he’s feeling again, and he hates it.  
   
He bundles it into an old plastic storage container, along with every other precious thing he owns.  
   
At the back of the wardrobe, in an old shoebox, are the things he’ll need to survive.  
   
A stun gun shaped like a pen, a tablet hidden as an old-style calculator. If Ross asks, Tony will tell him they’re sentimental, and Ross will believe him. The pills are harder to conceal; two more packs of those magic, baby-proof little diamonds, packed in plastic baggies. He puts them in a toiletries bag, hides them among his favourite perfume and old jewellery.  
   
   
“Hold out your arms,” Ross orders, and pats him down. “Have you shoved anything up your ass?”  
   
Tony glares. “No,” he says, “do you want to check?”  
   
Ross narrows his eyes. “I suppose I’ll find out when we get back. Give me the box. Let me see what’s inside.”  
   
He frowns at the coffee machine. Tony had packed it on a whim. “We have one of these. Do you want a new one? I can get you a new one.”  
   
“I want this one,” Tony says stubbornly.  
   
“Why?”  
   
Wordlessly, Tony plays with his tablet. “Friday,” he says, “make me a latte, soy milk, no cream, two sugar.”  
   
“Sure thing, boss. As soon as you plug me in, I’ll be right on it.”  
   
Ross raises his eyebrows. “That’s – nifty. Could you – could it listen to me?”  
   
“She,” Tony corrects, “she’s a she. But yeah, with some tampering. She might not – know the new state of affairs, and I wasn’t always… positive about you.”  
   
“Fix it,” Ross orders. “Do it so she listens to me too.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony lies, “I will.”  
   
Ross continues to rifle through his things. “What’s this?” He asks, drawing out the bundled shirt suspiciously too large for Tony’s frame. “Is this Rogers’?”  
   
“It helps me sleep,” Tony says, weakly. It was a long-shot. He should have known it was a long-shot, but –  
   
Ross grunts. “I’ll allow it. But just this once, understand?” He fumbles around, elbow deep, and drags out Tony’s little bag. “This?” He asks.  
   
“Heat things,” Tony blurts, sweat suddenly stinging the back of his neck. “Mementos, toiletries. You can check, it’s just – “  
   
“Pass,” Ross says, nose wrinkled. “And – what the hell is this?”  
   
Idiot. ‘Heat things’, yeah fucking right you bloated invertebrate. How thick can you be?  
   
“My tablet,” Tony says defensively.  
   
“You think I’m going to let you use this?!”  
   
“Aren’t we past this now? C’mon, Thadd, I won’t – “  
   
“No tablet.”  
   
“Fine.” Tony relents easily; he has his nifty little calculator to make up for it.  
   
Ross spends time examining his photographs, some of his jewellery. He ignores the pen, and the calculator. He must really think Tony is broken, if he can’t even be bothered to check. “There’s no room for the duvet,” Ross says shortly. “You need to leave it.”  
   
Tony makes himself smell sad. “But it will help me sleep,” he protests, “honestly. I won’t make you use it, just for – me.”  
   
Ross sighs dramatically. “Oh fine,” he says, “but only because I’m nice, understand? Load it in the back. If it gets dirty it’s not my problem.”  
   
He doesn’t let Tony take his box back to their bedroom. Instead, he pulls down a hatch in the ceiling and fixes the ladder to the floor. Tony doesn’t get it; is all his stuff going into storage? Was the whole thing some kind of elaborate exercise in breaking Tony down? He can still smell the scent of home in his nostrils, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to sneak his gear out in time.  
   
Ross jerks his chin. “Up,” he says, “go on.”  
   
“I don’t get it.”  
   
“You’ll see when you get there, go. Climb.”  
   
It’s not just an attic; it’s a _room._ A bit dusty, but there’s a wardrobe, a nice big bed, a sofa and table with an old, old TV (eighties, it looks like). The scent is old, but still lingering; nice and soft. It’s a mix of Ross’s rose scent (bizarre) and a lighter tone, maybe… oranges?  
   
“You’ve been good,” Ross says, stiffly. “And I’m aware I haven’t been – the most forthcoming. I’m a busy man. It didn’t occur to me – well no, it did. But I thought the less stimulation, maybe the better you would behave. Or maybe, you’d come to see treats as kindness. But evidently that didn’t work.”  
   
Tony clutches his box closer to his chest. What a weird day.  
   
“I know you hate sleeping in my bed. And I’ll be honest, I don’t sleep so great when you – you know, have your dreams. So we can compromise. You can take the attic. It’s private, it’s big enough. It – it used to be my wife’s,” Ross says shortly. “She always liked it, something about the light, I don’t know.”  
   
He calls her ‘wife’, even though she was an omega. Tony notes it, files it away, and decides to ruminate on it later. The room is large, sloped ceilings, four windows streaming gold across a wooden floor. It’s nice. It’s not his garage, and it’s not a lab, but it’s nice. Quiet. It reminds him of his childhood bedroom. “It’s mine?” He asks.  
   
“Consider it a loa – oh. Yeah, well. I guess you’re here forever so – yeah, it’s yours now. Do with it what you will.”  
   
Tony rests his box on the springy bed and sits, trying out the mattress. “Soft,” he says, trying to make conversation. “It’s – it’s nice.”  
   
Ross scowls. “I know it’s not _quite_ what you’re used to,” he says roughly, “it’s not a five star modern wonder. There aren’t any AI in the ceiling, and – it’s a bit dusty. But it was good enough for her, and so it will be good enough for you, and I don’t need any attitude if you’re going – “  
   
“I wasn’t giving you attitude,” Tony says tiredly. “It’s nice. It’s very nice, I meant that. I mean – it’s nice of you. To do this for me.”  
   
Ross narrows his eyes. “Right,” he says slowly. “Sure.”  
   
He should show his gratitude. He should… what would he have done, when he was Tony Stark? Sucked his cock, or bared his neck, or maybe just let Ross mark him on his glands. He can’t do that now. He’s lost his spark. So he just rifles through his little box and sets his parent’s portrait on the dresser, wipes it down slightly with the hem of his shirt. “It’s kind,” Tony says, actually meaning it. “Not many alphas would – do this. Thank you.”  
   
Ross nods. “Okay,” he says, simply. “Good. I’m glad you like it. I’ll let you get settled then. What time is dinner?”  
   
“I was planning 8PM.”  
   
“Fine. I’ll see you then.” Ross starts to descend down the ladder, then pokes his head through the floor. “And – by the way? If you do that again? The whole, depressive, moping shtick? I won’t put up with it. I’ll get a second, and I’ll send you away. Just so we’re clear.”  
   
Tony nods, slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m clear.”  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts are much appreciated!! Steve is back next chapter, and so is plot.
> 
> But yeah: your thoughts on Ross, on Tony, on how you think their characters are playing out, what you'd like to see etc are gr8 motivators!! Might be a week or so till i get the next chapter out.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony’s parents used to have a large oil painting of the three of them hanging above their fireplace.  
   
He doesn’t know what happened to it. After they died, Obie had taken hold of their property. He probably had it burned somewhere. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Point is, Tony knows how to pose for a painting.  
   
This one is awkward. Tony, seated, collar too tight and suit an ugly shade of nice omega red, a veil clasped in his hands (it’s supposed to look motherly, Ross had said), and his alpha looming over him like a fucking great stone monolith wearing an old general’s uniform with all the stars proudly attached to the breast.  
   
“How much longer?” Tony asks, out the side of his mouth.  
   
“How much longer?” Ross repeats, asking the young beta behind the easel. “Have you got what you need?”  
   
“Ten more minutes,” he says distractedly.  
   
“I have a meeting with the president I need to be leaving for,” Ross announces, like that isn’t literally his job and not that impressive. “You’ll need to be done by then.”  
   
“Of course, Mr Secretary. Of Ross,” the boy asks, “could you look a little to the left? That’s it, right at me. Thank you.”  
   
Tony turns, and the minutes slip away.  
   
   
He doesn’t let himself get bad again. No excuse for it; the world doesn’t stop turning because Tony is a little sad. He’s now four heats down with Ross: four months of marriage. No children, obviously, Tony has seen to that. If Ross is antsy, he’s careful not to let it show. For Tony’s part, he keeps his head down, doesn’t rock the boat. He has plans, careful, intricate plans, and all the players and all the pieces rely on him not going hell for leather and blowing everything on one glorious, unfettered moment of speaking his mind.  
   
He doesn’t see much of his husband anyway. Ross is gone for day at a time, often weeks. Recently, he’s taken to letting Tony manage his affairs. Sorting his taxes, ordering food, organising his meetings, his parties, anything Ross needs done on a personal level. So essentially, he’s a secretary. Fine. He learns more as Ross’s secretary than he ever did as Iron Man.  
   
Ross has Presidential ambitions. It’s obvious. Tony arranges his meetings; the man is constantly seeking sponsors, trying to get his foot in the door. Not to run this year, definitely not. But next cycle, when Ellis’s terms are up. It’s why he married Tony. A near never-ending pool of money from which to campaign, plus Tony’s expertise in superheroic defense; yeah, it would work.  
   
It’s Tony’s job to make sure it never happens.  
   
   
He’s half-asleep when John knocks on the hatch to his room. “Are you decent?” He calls, muffled by the floor. Tony frowns, sits up, disorientated.  
   
“What is it?” He mumbles. “Emergency?”  
   
“Emergency,” John agrees, slightly breathless, sticking his head up through the floor. “It has to be, or they definitely wouldn’t call you. Your needed.”  
   
For what? Does Ross need an immediate foot massage or something? Dinner? “Why?” Tony asks, throwing on a relatively clean sweater. “At this time?”  
   
“It’s something mechanical,’ John fills in, vague. “Get ready. I’ll have the chopper ready.”  
   
“Wait – “ Tony tries to get his attention before he leaves. Mechanical? As in, engineering?  
   
They need his help? To _build?_  
   
Unheard of. Tony suspects Ross and Ellis have gone out their way to _avoid_ asking him anything remotely technical. Ross won’t even let Tony fix the sink when it starts spitting water all over the place. If they need help now, and they’re _admitting_ it, it has to be serious, urgent.  
   
Tony is giddy. They’ll let him have _tools,_ maybe. Hopefully, it’s something incredibly dangerous and long-winded, and Tony will actually get _stimulation._ He’ll actually be _engaged,_ for the first time in months.  
   
John lands them somewhere near Capitol Hill, and they’re swallowed by concrete that opens up to meet them. A bunker, then. Super secretive. Oh, maybe it will be nuclear, that would be fantastic. Nuclear is always interesting.  
   
“John,” one of Ross’s aides greets, frazzled. “Stark. Wait, I – Of Ross, sorry. Not a moment too soon, it’s driving us mad.”  
   
“What’s the problem?” Tony asks, still dressed in his sleep pants and baggy sweater, slippers slapping against the floor.  
   
“One of your suits,” the aide says, exhausted. “Well, you’ll see.”  
   
He does. It’s Rhodes, James Rhodes, lying up on a table, cloaked in a red-white-and-blue war machine. He waves awkwardly when he sees Tony stand in the observation window, tries to smile. “Hi, Tony,” he says. “Good to uh, see you again.”  
   
He sighs, inwardly. He can already guess the problem. How disappointing. “He’s stuck, huh.”  
   
“Yeah,” the aide nods, frantically. “For three days. We can’t get him out, and we don’t want to break the suit. Could you…”  
   
“Sure,” Tony says, tired. “Okay then. I’ll need a toolbox, standard issue. And I’ll need privacy, or this _won’t_ work.” A lie, obviously, that’s not really how mechanics work, but okay.  
   
It’s an easy enough fix, but they don’t need to know that. Tony hasn’t spoken to anyone other than John and Ross for what feels like centuries; he’s not willing to let his go. “Hi, Mr Rhodes,” he says, sitting himself by Rhodes’s hip. “What seems to be the problem today?”  
   
“Well, doctor,” Rhodes sighs, “I am – what’s the medical term for, stuck as fuck?”  
   
“Stuckitus as fuckitia,” Tony says soberly. “And I’m very sorry, Mr Rhodes, but it’s terminal.”  
   
Rhodes laughs, eyes crinkling. They go all soft, and dewy. “How are you, Tony? I haven’t seen you since… since Berlin, maybe?”  
   
“Well, I’ve been very busy,” Tony says, dismantling the thigh piece. “Cleaning toilets, cooking dinners, you know. Important omega duties.”  
   
Rhodes makes a sympathetic noise. “That’s rough. I mean it,” he says, clanging his head against the table. “Tony, hey, Tony, look at me. I mean it,” he repeats.  
   
Tony gets the sense that he does. He always suspected Rhodes had a bit of a soft-spot for him, a crush maybe, but that’s because Rhodes is one of the good ones. A rare breed.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, roughly. “I’m so happy, now,” he parrots.  
   
“Like hell you are.”  
   
“Ah, Rhodes,” Tony sighs, “no one cares what I feel, or think.” He smiles tiredly. “What about you? You settled down yet?”  
   
“No. No one.”  
   
Some alphas marry late. Obie did. “You going to let your mom pick out the lucky O?” Tony teases, but it feels flat. He’s a bit too drawn out to make it feel real.  
   
“No. Actually – “ Rhodes laughs, softly. “Actually, would you believe – I was sort of waiting on this one O.”  
   
“Oh yeah? What happened to them?”  
   
“They married the Secretary of State.”  
   
Yikes, Rhodes, ease a boy into it. “Oh,” Tony manages, keeping himself focused on his work. “I see.”  
   
Rhodes smiles, but it’s sad. He smells all depressed. “So that’s it, huh. I bare my soul, and you go, ‘okay’.”  
   
Tony looks at him. “Rhodes,” he says, quietly. “I’m married, now.”  
   
“I know that. I just wanted to say it. Now you know. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you like this again, one on one, or with a tool in your hand. So I just wanted to say it.”  
   
“Well, thank you. I guess it’s nice to know that there’s someone, somewhere, who still gives a fuck.”  
   
Rhodes can’t help himself, then. “I would have looked after you,” he says, fiercely. “I wouldn’t have let you – waste, and only dragged you out when an engine needs fixed, like some kind of cheap mechanic. I would have treated you right.”  
   
So, there it is. The truth.  
   
Tony nods, carefully dismantling the latch. “You might have,” he says. “But you don’t have the pull Ross does.”  
   
“So that’s it. It’s a power play?”  
   
_Everything is a power play when you’re not alpha._  
   
“Rhodes, it’s the only power I have,” Tony says quietly. “To – make important alphas happy. To make them trust me. Right now, it’s all I have. And you’re not important enough.” Not true. Rhodes is a very nice young man. If Tony’s parents hadn’t married him off to an alpha twice his age, he’s the kind of guy they would have liked him to bring home. Honestly, Rhodes _is_ one of the good ones. Unfortunately for him, he has something Tony needs, and so now Tony is going to need to manipulate him until he gives him want he wants.  
   
“Thanks, Tony.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, looks up, more upset then he’s letting on. “Could you tell me when Steve’s coming home? Are you privy to those conversations? Do you have the pull to stop Ellis marching on Wakanda armed with nuclear weapons?”  
   
“So what, you want to keep Rogers safe? After everything?” Rhodes sounds sickened. “No, Tony, I don’t have that pull. But we would have been happy. And I would have – how long are you going to keep protecting him, when he has never protected you? The whole reason you’re here is because of him, Stark. It’s on him.”  
   
“Of Ross,” Tony corrects, quietly. “I’m not Stark. I’m Ross.”  
   
Rhodes makes a disgusted noise. “You be whatever you want to be, Tony. I could have offered you something more, is all I’m saying. I would have helped you. Rogers hasn’t. He won’t.”  
   
Tony throws down his screwdriver. “And what’s the point in telling me this now, huh? Why not – six months ago? Or all those months I was alone in HQ? Why not tell me then? No, let me tell you,” Tony spits viciously, “you only tell me now because you, like every other fucking alpha on the face of the planet, likes kicking me when I’m down. Really driving in the nail. I don’t care how lovesick you are, you missed your chance, and you don’t get to – to make me _feel_ like this because I didn’t choose something I didn’t even realise was an option.”  
   
Furiously, Tony starts jamming the screwdriver back into the joint, but his hands are shaking and its delicate work. “Tony,” Rhodes says quietly.  
   
“Shut the fuck up,” Tony responds, faking desperation, and for some reason he’s crying. A nice touch, maybe? “Just shut the fuck up, and let me work.”  
   
 “I didn’t want to – oh God.” Rhodes is fretting, Tony can smell it on him, but he’s too distressed to care. “I didn’t want to upset you. Tony? Please look at me. Tony.”  
   
Tony discreetly wipes his sleeve over his eye and says nothing. The catch isn’t that stiff, not at all. It’s a simple sequence in the screws and Tony’s the only one who knows how to get it loose. But Rhodes doesn’t need to know that, because Tony needs something from him first.  
   
“Tony I really – didn’t want to upset you. I mean. I really really – please.”  
   
Tony sniffs, blinks. “It’s fine,” he lies. It’s not fine. It’s not fine, nothing is fine. _Come on, Rhodey,_ he thinks internally, _take the bait._  
   
“I just – ever since I worked for SI, you know? I always suspected – Stane. I didn’t want to – “  
   
“I know you did,” Tony tries to smile. “And I know – you tried to help me. I appreciated it, I appreciate it now.” The screwdriver slips, punctures his finger, and Tony hisses. “Fuck,” he breathes, waving his hand in the air.  
   
“Are you okay?” Rhodes asks hurriedly, trying to lift his head. “Do you need help? Do you need a bandaid? I can call – “  
   
Slight pain scent to set Rhodes on edge, break him down a little. “I’m fine,” Tony snaps, and Rhodes relaxes, suitably chagrined. More time passes in silence. And then, Rhodes speaks.  
   
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help you,” he says flatly. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t stop him from marrying you. You deserved better.’  
   
“It’s alright,” he rasps. “I’m happy. I’m so glad I’m married to Ross. He is so kind to me.” He parrots it, trots out the line, because he can’t think of anything else to say.  
   
“When was the last time you were left alone with someone who wasn’t him, huh?”  
   
Tony makes himself cry. It’s not all an act. “I don’t know,” he admits, “I can’t remember. All these months and I’ve just – God he’s got me on these pills, and they make it so hard to feel anything, I – _fuck!”_ He’s done it again, slammed the flat of the screwdriver against his fingers. “I’m out of practice,” he babbles, like that makes it okay. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  
   
“Relax.”  
   
“I can’t – relax,” Tony huffs, drying his eyes for a second time. A beat. “No one’s said that me,” he mumbles. “No one talks to me at all. It’s like I’m window dressing. And they definitely don’t say, or acknowledge, that – maybe I deserved better. Because I did.”  
   
“There are people out there who feel the same way.”  
   
Tony snorts. “Not fucking likely.”  
   
“No, Tony,” and Rhodes is suddenly urgent. “There are people who haven’t forgotten what you did. Who would help you, if it came down to that.”  
   
Tony frowns. “What are you – “  
   
“If you need help, tell me. I mean it. I can’t make promises, but I’ll always try. If he hurts you, tell me. I know people. I don’t know people with pull,” Rhodes half smiles, “but there are ways to get you out of the country.”  
   
“If Steve – “  
   
“I get it. You have to stay for Steve, because you need to help him, and if he ever comes home you want to be here. I understand,” Rhodes says tiredly. “But, if one day it looks like maybe he’s not coming home, and Ross – raises a hand to you, or you just decide enough is enough – I can help you. Because you haven’t been forgotten. You haven’t.”  
   
“I don’t know what to say,” Tony admits, because it’s true.  
   
“I couldn’t stop Stane. I didn’t help you then, and I never forgave myself. If I had just – “ Rhodes shuts his eyes, lets his head rest on the table. “If I had helped you then, if I had just _told_ you how I – you don’t owe Rogers anything, you know that? You don’t have to settle for him, just because he was the first thing that came along after Stane.”  
   
Tony frowns at the sudden diversion. “What? I didn’t – settle for Steve, what are you – “  
   
“Nothing. Ignore me. I’m sorry. Just – remember. If you need help, ever, let me know. I’ll see what I can do.”  
   
Bingo. That’s the answer he was looking for. Tony examines him for a long time. Then: “Done.” He says, popping the catch easily and letting the metal chestplate fall to the floor.  
   
“What?” Rhodes’ brow furrows. “How did you – “  
   
“I built it. I know how to take it apart.”  
   
“But you said – it was so stiff.”  
   
“Yeah, it was. I fixed it. There, you’re good to go. I’ll hold you to that, by the way.”  
   
“Hold me to what?”  
   
“Your offer. To help.”  
   
“What? Yeah, of course. Tony, I wasn’t – _lying,_ I want to help you.”  
   
That’s what Rhodes thinks. When push comes to shove, Tony doesn’t know what will win out, his crush on Tony, or his passion for his career. It’s always good to soften them up, make them think you’re a little weepy, a bit cut off. He feels a bit bad, maybe, because Rhodes really is one of the good ones, but he just needs to have something up his sleeve.  
   
Still, it’s better to have Rhodes offer help than have Tony ask. Alpha’s need to reach conclusions on their own; they don’t like to think they’re being ordered about. Even the good ones.  
   
   
A few days later, Tony is bringing Ross his dinner and night-cap, slippers folded beneath his arm and food balanced on a tray.  
   
“Just leave it there,” Ross says, looking up from his papers. “Actually – wait. Come here. I didn’t ask how it went yesterday.”  
   
“Yesterday?”  
   
“With Rhodes. He get out of that suit okay?”  
   
Tony half-smiles. “He did. Eventually. I – “ he holds up his hand “ – kinda butchered myself in the process.”  
   
“Out of practice,” Ross notes.  
   
“Yeah. Maybe.”  
   
Tony expects him to let him go, or maybe ask for a drink. But instead he sighs, throws back his head against the couch, throws a cushion on the floor. “Sit,” he says, patting it. “I’m bored. Talk to me.”  
   
A lump in Tony’s throat. “Talk to you?” He questions, automatically suspicious.  
   
“Yes. There’s no trick here Tony, I’m bored. And we’ve been married – what, four months? And I still don’t know you any better. I thought – “ Ross snorts slightly “ – I thought when I married you, it would never be boring. You know, because you run your mouth so much. But who would have guessed you’re a good boy?”  
   
Tony considers refusing, begging sick, making up something about washing dishes. But this is Ross extending an olive branch. Somehow, this feels like a test. So he goes, kneels, and settles by Ross’s feet. Tentatively, he rests his chin on the couch, looking up through his lashes. “I am a good boy,” he simpers, and Ross’s hand tightens into a fist on the couch. He breathes in deep, scent going _lustlust,_ and Tony knows it must kill him to feel this way all because of little old Tony.  
   
“Well,” he grumbles, “I wouldn’t say that exactly.” He squints back at his papers, rests his hand lightly in Tony’s hair. “What do you think of Warren?”  
   
Tony blinks. “What?”  
   
“Warren, Congressman Warren. What do you think of him?”  
   
Dangerous territory. “I don’t know,” Tony says, “what do you think of him?”  
   
Ross glances at him from the corner of his eye, smirks. “That’s cute,” he says, “but I actually want your opinion.”  
   
“Really? Is that – okay?”  
   
“It’s okay. I want your 100%, objective viewpoint.”  
   
Tony raises his eyebrows, lays his head back down. “I think he’s psychotic,” he says succinctly.  
   
“So do I,” Ross agrees, and he sighs. “So does the President.”  
   
“But?”  
   
“But he pretty much commands the puritan bloc. It’s only a handful of congressmen, but we need them to pass anything these days.”  
   
“He’s the reason I’m married to you,” Tony lets slip, and then recovers when Ross shoots him a glare. “I mean – he’s the reason omegas need alpha permission.”  
   
“Right. Because he can ask for anything, and we’ll just bend. Like bitches in heat. No offence,” Ross adds, as if Tony hasn’t heard it all before. He waits a beat, and then says: “He’ll be coming here, in three days time. I need you to put on a good show.”  
   
“ _What?”_  
   
“Shh,” Ross snaps, digging the pad of his thumb into the back of Tony’s neck. It’s a mix of _ouchouchouch_ and his brain melting. “You’re going to cook for him, and you’re going to be nice to him. Aren’t you. Aren’t you?” When Tony doesn’t respond right away, he slips his hand lower to Tony’s gland and pinches the left one. It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s so uncomfortable to be touched there like that, so Tony pulls back his chin and –  
   
“You’ll be nice to him,” Ross repeats, “won’t you?”  
   
Tony nods, quickly. “I will,” he manages. Internally he’s screaming. Maybe he can spike Warren’s wine and let him choke on the floor? That would be good. God, where could he find what he needs –  
   
“I appreciate he’s not your favourite person. He’s not mine, either. God knows what he’ll ask for, but Ellis needs help pushing through a piece on healthcare. It’s not supposed to be my job, but Warren fought in ‘Nam too, and quite frankly, I’m in no state to be getting in the President’s black books.”  
   
“Give an inch take a mile,” Tony mumbles sleepily, because Ross’s fingers have taken up their rough rubbing again.  
   
“That’s true,” Ross sighs, “he will. There are rumours – God, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but what the hell. There are rumours he’s going to run against Ellis, you know. Actually challenge him. We’re coming to the end of primary campaigning, but there’s still time, and it maybe works in his favour. Gives his base less time to see the bad, you know?”  
   
“That’s why Ellis wants to woo him,” Tony sighs, rubbing his cheek against the couch. “Because he’s doesn’t want the threat. He’s trying to… bribe him not to run.”  
   
Tony can hear the clock ticking over in Ross’s head. “Fuck,” he says, shortly. “Yeah, that’s probably it. I – hold on, a second. I just need to make a call.”  
   
Footsteps retreating, and Tony starts to doze. What should he cook? Something traditional. Oh! Apple pie! His mom taught him how to make apple pie. So apple pie for dessert, and… Warren probably wants meat. Extra rare, no doubt.  
   
He must have been dozing, because then Ross is back. “Are you sleeping?” He says, sitting back with a huff. Tony shakes his head blearily, although yeah, he kind of had been. Ross sounds slightly breathless, and smells a bit acrid, like he’s just been arguing with someone over the phone. “Make me happy, Tony. Talk to me.”  
   
Tony tries to collect his thoughts but it’s hard through the haze. “I’m… going to make pie,” he manages. “For Warren.” He’s not sure what Ross wants to hear, but again, he just _feels_ like this is a test. Not fair. It’s hard to pass a test when you’re half-out of your mind with sleepy sleep.  
   
Ross has turned back to his papers, but taps Tony’s neck to indicate he should continue. “And meatloaf,” he manages. “With… caramelised onions. And goats cheese. And – berries.”  
   
“Sounds good,” Ross says distractedly. “Who taught you how to cook?”  
   
“My mom,” Tony sighs.  
   
“So your carrier taught you to cook, and your sire…?”  
   
“He taught me everything,” Tony admits, and he hates how he can’t engage any brain to mouth filter like this. He suspects it’s why Ross wants to talk to him, to get some kind of truth out of him while his defences are down. “He didn’t treat me like… like an omega.”  
   
“Best not mention that to Warren,” Ross says dryly. “He thinks an omega doing anything but serving on their back is an offense to God.”  
   
“I didn’t realise you were such a champion for omega rights,” Tony says before he can stop himself. Then, he waits for the pinch, but none if forthcoming. Ross is chuckling softly.  
   
“Yeah,” he says, turning over the page, “I can see why you might find that funny. I’m not _backwards,_ Tony. You could do a lot worse.”  
   
“So I’ve been told,” Tony mumbles, eyes drooping.  
   
“You’re so sensitive here, huh? It’s knocks you out.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony agrees. “It feels so good though.”  
   
Ross preens, as if he’s done something special. “How much does it hurt? If I – _relax_ , I’m not going to do anything. I just don’t know, I don’t have – a big fat erogenous zone on my neck.”  
   
“Like…” Tony tries to think past lassitude. Natasha described it best, what did she say? “It’s like – knives, all over. Or burning. It’s like freezing your fingers then sticking them in blue flame. It’s the worst,” he finishes, succinct. “Obie used to do it a lot,” Tony adds, “but even he wouldn’t do it often.”  
   
“He did?” Ross perks up, suddenly interested, and Tony laughs inwardly. Ross thinks he’s manipulating Tony, as if it isn’t the other way around. “Why?”  
   
“Um,” Tony smacks his lips. “I don’t know. Depends. When I was rude. Or when I… I don’t know, for anything. He did it more towards the end.”  
   
“What happened towards the end?”  
   
_Notgood, badbadbad, don’twant, don’twant, don’twant –_  
   
“He tried to kill me,” Tony says, almost level.  
   
“Afghanistan.”  
   
“Yeah. And when I got home I think… he thought he could maybe get me to kill myself. I don’t know. That’s just the working theory.”  
   
Ross is silent for a moment. “Seriously?”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony says. “I think he realised that… he couldn’t just _kill_ me. But if I did it myself, it would look like, I don’t know, PTSD. Or whatever they call it in omegas. So he tried to make my life…” Tony sighs again when Ross strokes thumb over his nape, “a misery. Really just fucking nasty.”  
   
Tony goes all _shameshameshame_ and _sadsadsad_ at the thought _._ He tries to pull away, because he realises Ross is trying to goad him into revealing more, and he hates that he can’t control it. But Ross catches him by the scruff, does something with his nails, and Tony is caught, melting back against the couch. Desperate to get away, but still. Caught.  
   
“You remember George?” Ross says casually. “The lobbyist. Used to work for SI?”  
   
“I remember.”  
   
“He was telling me some stories.”  
   
Tony swallows, rough, heavy in his throat. He tries to sit up because this has gone _badwrong_ very fast, but Ross just holds him there, pins him by the back of the neck. “Stay,” he says, “I want to talk to you.”  
   
“What do you want to know?” Tony croaks.  
   
“I don’t know. We’re married. And yet, there was _George,_ telling me things about my own omega I didn’t know. It made me look like an idiot.”  
   
Why do alphas hate that so much? Ross makes Tony look like an idiot every day and you don’t catch Tony complaining. Tony looks like an idiot right now.  
   
“I don’t like talking about it.”  
   
“Okay,” Ross says, but Tony doesn’t for a second think he’s trying to be reasonable. Let’s start easy. How many people have you had, other than me and Stane?”  
   
Tony swallows, pushes his head into the cushion. “Just you, Stane, and Steve,” he says, burning with something – shame, maybe – from the tip of his head to his toes. “And – and the Ambassador, obviously.”  
   
Ross starts. “The Ambassador? He was – he was only the third person you ever…”  
   
Awkward, awkward, this is so awkward. “I was married,” Tony mumbles, “at 17. And after… I met Steve. So just those two. Then the Ambassador. Then you.”  
   
“I – wouldn’t have made you. With him. If I had known.”  
   
Tony frowns, sleepy. “What do you mean?” He grumbles.  
   
“I don’t know, I thought – I just thought that you had had more than that. That you were some kind of – everyone told me you were a slut. No offence,” Ross says again, but this time, offence is taken.  
   
“Rumors,” Tony says flatly. “The Board spread them after Obie died. They wanted people to think I was untrustworthy. I am… monogamous by default. It’s, uh…” Tony tries to find the word past all the blur in his brain. “It’s like – possessive. I’m loyal. I’m very, stupidly, loyal. I can’t even help it.”  
   
“Loyal to me?” Ross asks quietly, and he’s put down his papers.  
   
“Even to you,” Tony lies.  
   
This makes Ross’s scent go _YES!YES!YES!_ even though he tries to hide it with a cough and rearranging his papers. “Well, obviously,” he says, throat thick. “Of course you would be.”  
   
_You’re so easy to control, you lonely old man,_ Tony thinks tiredly.  
   
“And no one else? Not even after Stane died? Or when Rogers was gone?”  
   
“Never.”  
   
“What about Rhodes?”  
   
Tony freezes. “I’ve never – I would never – no. Just those three. Just you, and my other alphas.”  
   
Ross relaxes, probably because he can smell the sincerity and panic on him. “Good,’ he says, smoothing a hand across his neck. “Fine. You probably don’t even notice how he looks at you,” Ross says imperiously, “but you don’t know alphas like I do. I was so worried he would try something last night. Trust me, Tony, the way he looks at you? It’s bad news.”  
   
“I never realised,” Tony lies, heart winding back down. Ross doesn’t know. Thank fuck, he doesn’t know what they talked about.  
   
“That’s because you’re a good boy,” Ross says, safe in his own delusion. “People told me you would be a handful, or that you were some kind of beta-wannabe, a newt, but you’re not. You know your place, and you do it well. You’re a very, _very_ good boy, Tony.”  
   
He slides his thumb across the most sensitive part of Tony’s neck – his nape – once and twice when he says ‘very very’ and Tony drools into the couch. He _is_ a very very good boy, isn’t he? He’s just the best, so good.  
   
Ross laughs, mildly amused. “You’re purring, did you know that? I missed this. Having someone to – “ he cuts off, abruptly, and removes his hand. Tony can smell how stale the air has gotten, but he’s so far gone it’s hard to figure out why. In his drowsy state, all he can manage is a slurred ‘what d’di’do?’  
   
“You should go to bed,” Ross says shortly. “I have work that needs to be done.”  
   
What? Just when Tony was _finally_ making some headway? If he could continue this way, Tony reckons he could have won Ross’s trust and his license within the month. “But I like it here,” he pouts, sickeningly. “I like being with you.”  
   
The big eyes, slurred voice, illusion of being under, must make Ross think he’s telling the truth, because his scent does something funny, something it’s never done before; it’s _lustlust,_ with something _curling_ underneath, just the first stirrings of – dare Tony even think it? – something beginning to resemble _lovelovelove._ “Are you that lonely?” Ross grunts. “Fuck, have I stockholmed you?”  
   
It’s weird, what people will admit when they think you’re vulnerable. The first time Tony ever got drunk, his father admitted that the reason he could be cold sometimes was because he was jealous. When Obie stabbed him in the back of the neck with a taser and let him choke on the floor, he announced that he’d tried to have him killed. In that same way, Ross now admits that he knows he forced Tony – essentially kidnapped him – into playing happy families. Really. It’s funny what people tell you when they think you’re weak.  
   
“We don’t have to talk,” Tony says, laying his head back down. “I can just sit here. And you can – maybe you can pet me?” He nudges Ross’s leg with his head and Ross’s scent goes all sticky and embarrassed. “I’ll be good,” Tony slurs, wondering if he’s hamming it up too much.  
   
Apparently not. Ross pats his head. “Alright,” he relents, like he’s doing Tony a big favour. “You can stay. But don’t blame me if you get a stiff neck.”  
   
_I’m not a child!_ Tony screams, inwardly. Outwardly, he smiles placidly, rests his head on Ross’s knee, and waits it out.  
   
   
The collar is itchy.  
   
Ross had told him to wear it, so obviously, Tony is wearing it. Because he doesn’t have a choice. He’s scrubbed up, pilled up, ready to tango. And by tango, he means sit subserviently and dole out his delicious canapes.  
   
“What did you make?” Ross asks tersely. They’re sitting in the lounge, waiting for the doorbell to ring. “Did you make the pie?’  
   
“I did,” Tony says tiredly. “And the loaf. And I even made the little cheese bites you like.” He had been up all night making them, actually, not that anyone had asked.  
   
Ross huffs. “Good, that’s good. And the kitchen is presentable? Warren is bringing his wife, she’s supposed to be a pack bitch. Sorry – “ Ross winces “ – I keep – she’s meant to be a hard ticket, you know?”  
   
“I know,” Tony replies, exasperated. “Relax. Unclench. I’ve got this.”  
   
Ross fiddles with his tie. “I hate this,” he grumbles, “I thought southern hospitality meant being on time?”  
   
“Power play,” Tony says easily. “Relax now, or he’ll smell it on you.” He isn’t trying to help Ross; that isn’t it. It’s just that he has as much as anyone resting on this night going his way, and Ross stinking out the place with stress is not a good look.  
   
“You need to be on best behaviour,” Ross reminds him _again._ “No snapping. No – liberal crap. Just keep it clean, keep it simple. If he talks to you – make him happy. Don’t talk back.”  
   
“Thaddeus, it would shock you how good I am at making alpha’s happy,” Tony says lazily, ignoring the glare Ross shoots him from across the room.  
   
The door bell rings about twenty minutes later, after a long period of stilted silence. Ross jumps up, then sits, as if his brain is trying to compute the etiquette, so Tony is one the who has to open the door, head bowed, invisible.  
   
“Ross!” Warren calls, shaking his hand vigorously and slapping him on the back; this goes on for a while, neither willing to let go of each other’s hand for fear of being seen as weak. Tony isn’t really supposed to greet the wife until the alpha’s done, but it’s getting embarrassing for both of them, so he rests a hand on Ross’s shoulder so he has an excuse to break away.  
   
Warren is tall, skinny. His eyes are milky, one of them slightly lazy, but other than that he’s a fairly average human being, if you could call him that. He introduces his first omega – a woman, shorter than Tony, hair flat on her head, who glares at him like he’s the anti-christ personified, is stiff and awkward during their greeting kiss on the hand (Tony kisses her, a sign of respect because she’s older), and breaks away quickly.  
   
“And who’s this?” Ross asks, welcoming a second omega past the door. “You didn’t say you were bringing your son.”  
   
Tony almost slaps himself in the face; fucking hell, Ross, obviously it isn’t his _son,_ clearly it’s his new omega. Tony laughs, as if Ross has said something incredibly witty. “You don’t need to flatter him,” he says kindly, laying a hand on the young boy’s arm. “Don’t mind Thaddeus,” he smiles, “he’s just upset that Warren gets someone so young, and he’s stuck with me.”  
   
The young omega is grateful for the sticky moment being eased away, and Warren eyes him, up and down. “Of Ross,” he says, levelly. “You’re shorter in person.”  
   
Tony opens his mouth, and then shuts it. “Thank you,” he simpers, like it’s a compliment. “Thaddeus, _honey,”_ oh, ew, that’s the first and last time he ever uses _that_ term of endearment. “Why don’t you show Mr Warren the lounge?”  
   
“Mary,” Warren orders, “come with me, please. Or Ross,” Warren smiles, wet and pale, his lips a smear on his skin, “please take Nicholas with you to the kitchen. He could use a few lessons.”  
   
Tony smiles, but the young man is jittery, nervous. Maybe it’s his first time having to observe courtesy like this. “Are you newly married?” Tony asks. “Ross never mentioned a second wife.”  
   
“T-today,” Nicholas manages, keeping his head down. “We were married today.”  
   
Tony stares. “Today?” He recovers. Yeah, that figures. Old-school alphas like Warren don’t see it as a big deal, not with their seconds, thirds, fuck, even fourths. Marry them in the morning, bred by the time the week is up, birthing a nine months later. They’re fast movers, and pageantry, parties, spectacles like weddings, are viewed as immoral.  
   
“Well,” Tony continues. “That’s – nice. You you like some cake?”  
   
“It’s – not dessert yet. We haven’t even had dinner.”  
   
“My treat. Coffee? Soft drink? Something harder?”  
   
Nicholas shakes his head quickly. “No no, I – can’t. Orange juice, if there’s any.”  
   
Tony obliges. “You have a story, Nick?” Tony smiles a half-smile. “Go on,” he prompts, “we all do. No one chooses to marry someone double their age,” he says, wryly.  
   
“I was going to go to college,” Nicholas says quietly. “My parents disowned me after – I left the pack. I saved, worked in a coffee shop and – I did other things. Impure things.”  
   
“Don’t,” Tony says shortly. He doesn’t need to hear about that.  
   
“When I heard the bill was going through, I asked the pack mother to grant me my license. But she wouldn’t. She said, if I came home, if I married someone of their choice…”  
   
And so they bound him Warren. A congressman, a pillar of the community. “My sire chose my first husband,” Tony says, trying to be comforting. “He didn’t know that he would beat me. Sometimes, they don’t know. They don’t do these things to hurt us.”  
   
“She did it to hurt me. She wasn’t my sire. My sire is a third wife once removed. She was bred by the pack mother’s husband.” Jesus, Tony hates pack-family relations. Just stick to a mother and father like the rest of us. Who the fuck needs a pack-mother once removed, twice doubled, shaken not stirred, when you could just say sire? “She said – she told me, at the wedding, she said that I should be so lucky a man like Warren would even take me for a second. I was a charity case, she said.”  
   
Warren didn’t pick Nicholas for charity. Nicholas is small, lithe, black-haired and blue-eyed. He’s stunning. Tony can see why he did well at impure things. Warren, despite his rhetoric, is a hypocrite. “He’ll be dead soon,” Tony offers, drying off a dish.  
   
“He won’t. His sire is still alive – 101 years old. I’m going to be bound to him for life, at least for my fertile years. And then – after that – “  
   
“You could kill him,” Tony says casually. “I’ll bet they won’t suspect.”  
   
Nicholas’s eyes go wide. “I c-can’t – you can’t even joke about those things, anyone could hear. They would beat you on the spot if you dared – “  
   
“I did dare. I killed my last alpha. Would you like some more?” Tony asks, gesturing at Nick’s plate. He laughs when the boy shakes his head, eyes bulging. “You wouldn’t tip the scale soaking wet. Do I look like someone you need to be formal with? Take some more, it won’t kill you.”  
   
Nick eyes up the cake, the nods, quickly. Tony smiles, serves him another piece. “The way you spoke in there,” Nick says, voice hushed. “I could never do that. I mean – telling my alpha where to go, or… suggesting things.”  
   
“Neither would I if my alpha was a fundamentalist. Luckily, he’s just your average monster _without_ the religious fervour.”  
   
“Did you – did you really kill your last alpha?”  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“He tried to kill me. And he wasted my youth. Why else?”  
   
Nick chews his cake slowly. “I’m not allowed sugar at home,” he says. “Pack mother says it’s bad for my teeth. And it will make me fat.”  
   
“You’re not a child.”  
   
“Yeah, but doesn’t stop them from treating us like children.” Nick looks up. “Why do they do that?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Biology, maybe. I used to think that. You know when – you think you’re strong, but then they shout, or slam something, and you can’t – control it? You know what I mean. You sort of just go belly-up? I used to think that meant we’re all just wired this way.”  
   
“But not anymore?” Nick asks, confused. “How can it not be biology?”  
   
Tony fills his glass. “Because good alphas exist. There’s a kind of alpha that – when they shout, it’s not scary. Did you know that?”  
   
“Not really.”  
   
Tony smiles sadly. “Well they do,” he says. “And they’re kind, and they’re loving. Not just for the honeymoon, but always.”  
   
“Always?”  
   
“That’s right.”  
   
Nick looks at his cake, pushes it around his plate. “Then how comes you’re here?” He asks, quietly. He looks up. Tony doesn’t have an answer.  
   
   
The good news is Tony’s canapes go down a treat.  
   
The bad news is Warren is currently spitting them across the table, along with biblical quotes Tony suspects he’s just inventing on the spot, and a lot of spittle.  
   
“No abortion for alpha females. I’m telling you now that my bloc will not lend it’s support to _anything_ that risks the creation of good alpha and omega stock. Do you know what no one’s talking about, Ross? No one is talking about how every year, we get more and more selfish. Omegas thinking they don’t _need_ to have children. Alpha mating beta, when there are omegas ripe for the picking, omegas mating other _omegas,”_ Warren spits, makes a disgusted sound. “And for what? Pure selfishness, is what. Our good God put us on this earth to go forth and multiply, and what has this generation done? Unwound all that work, all of history, for their own damn self-interest.”  
   
“Oh, I absolutely agree,” Ross says emphatically. “You know Ellis and I both run from traditional stock. Family values, pack values – where are they? I mean, really, what would be be without them?”  
   
Tony feels honest to God shame that his alpha is such a fucking brownnoser. Steve would never roll over like this.  
   
“ _Exactly,”_ Warren says, excitedly. “Did you know that the omega birth rate is in decline? And without omegas begetting more omegas, alphas start to go down too. We are the backbone of the country, Ross. This is the real issue that no one is talking about.”  
   
Ross nods, ‘mming’ and ‘hmming’. Tony focuses on his plate so he won’t have to glare at his spineless sack of shit alpha.  
   
“Omega’s who don’t accept their place are breed traitors,” the wife doles out, eyes spitting at Tony across the table. “We shouldn’t accept such perversions.”  
   
“Quite,” Warren says, patting her hand like a dog that’s just performed a nice trick. “Once upon a time, this country had it’s priorities straight. Now?” Warren shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re still even worth saving. And I mean, look no further for the proof of our reforms,” Warren announces, holding out his hand. “Of Ross, your canapes were _fantastic._ You are such a good cook.”  
   
Tony smiles vapidly. “I knew engineering would come in handy one day! Cooking is just the best.”  
   
“That’s sweet,” Warren says, leaning against the table. “And, Of Ross, would you say you’re happy now?”  
   
“Oh, so happy,” Tony lies. “Everything is so much easier when I don’t have to worry. I can just make my alpha happy, and that’s all I need.”  
   
“Amazing,” Warren says, shaking his hand at the ceiling as if imploring God for working his magic. “Blessed. And with grace, children to follow, is that right Thaddeus?”  
   
Ross’s smile is tight. “Well, we hope.” He says. “The Lord, uh – hasn’t provided, yet.”  
   
Oh for fuck’s sake Ross, put some feeling in it. Tony can smile and wheedle and that’s the best you can come up with? Are you going to leave _everything_ to him?  
   
“Omegas today just don’t realise their importance,” Warren says magnanimously. “Without them, there is no us. We need them to breed, and breed well. But, unfortunately, it would appear many of them are products of the eighties”. Warren smiles, too sharp, across the table. “They think they aren’t omega. They think, if they simply choose not to bear their neck, somehow they’re beta. This simply isn’t true. It’s a sickness, and we need to protect them from it. They don’t know their own minds, Thadd. Their breed should be protected, and rightly so; they give us _life.”_  
   
“Hmm,” Tony agrees, tuning out. “You’re so right. I was so…” Tony searches for the word “lost, before. But now I know my place.”  
   
“At it should be,” the wife intones. “Amen.”  
   
And with that, Tony stands. “Dinner?” He asks.  
   
   
The topic at the table is everyone’s favourite.  
   
“Now,” Warren says, voice heavy, “I don’t like to be crude with company. But Ross, I don’t think my propositions are too extreme. Do you think I’ve been too extreme?”  
   
_Yes, obviously,_ Ross is thinking, but he won’t say. “I think we need to talk more about female alpha’s rights, specifically. I’m not sure how that will go down with that crowd.”  
   
Warren waves a hand. “Then we’ll discuss it,” he says, “I’m reasonable. I would be willing to trade it, for something else.”  
   
Ah, this old trick. Start with something virtually impossible, lower your goal, and suddenly you seem reasonable. Tony used to use it all the time, when he sold weapons. “Well, it depends,” Ross says slowly. “What would you be thinking?”  
   
“Omegas are happier at home,” Warren says. “Isn’t that true? Mary? Nicholas?”  
   
“Yes,” they both chime. “Of course.”  
   
Warren looks at Tony, like he’s supposed to agree. “Oh, yeah,” he says quickly. “Definitely, mmm.”  
   
“At some point, we decided that, actually, omegas going out, working – we were fine with this. We let them sacrifice when they didn’t need to sacrifice. And we let them sacrifice children, a family, a home, so they could fulfil,” Warren’s lips form a sneer “a liberal agenda. To wreck homes. Infiltrated by the soviets, did you know that? They were the ones who started it. Wanted to wreck America from within.”  
   
Jesus. Tony can’t help it, he glares at Ross across the table, and Ross actually looks back, brows knitted together as if to say, _fucking hell, I can’t believe this either._  
   
“I see,” Ross says slowly. “Warren, I can’t – stop omegas from working. We’re not some kind of… dictatorship. If an omega has a license, they can work, our government won’t take it that far, ever.”  
   
Warren shakes his hand, waves a hand. “Oh no, of course not. Let those who really wish to suffer, suffer. And I suppose there’s nothing wrong with young omegas working some before they marry, that isn’t the issue. The issue, specifically, are the blockers.”  
   
“Blockers?”  
   
“Heat blockers. Suppressants. Call them whatever you want to call them.”  
   
Ross is already shaking his head. “Warren, we cannot tell pharmaceutical companies to stop selling – “  
   
“Hear me out. What’s the one reason an omega would need to suppress a heat, hmm? Really. The one reason, other than to work.” A long silence. “I’ll tell you, then. _Adultery._ Adultery and selfishness. Every missed heat is a child stolen. Like I say, the breeding population is in decline, and I am in a position to remedy this – “  
   
“No.” Ross says flatly. “Warren, omegas don’t buy suppressants. You know who buys suppressants? Alphas. Alphas who can’t afford more children, alphas who are going to be away for a heat.”  
   
And, if you take away the choice, omegas will always find the black market. Just like Tony has. Its reach is wide, and strong. Nothing will stop them from getting what they want, when push comes to shove.  
   
“Then these alphas are selfish,” Warren snaps.  
   
“No, those alphas are economical. It’s cruel to let an omega go through a heat without someone, and suppressants are the safest answer. Either way, children aren’t conceived. Warren,” Ross sighs, “I came here wanting to make progress, but you need to meet me in the middle. The world won’t bend into some kind of theocracy overnight, and you’re not the man to do it.”  
   
Warren’s nostrils flare, the scent in the room plummets into something sour and strained. “Are you one of those alphas?” He seethes. “Maybe that’s why you struggle so much with conceiving?”  
   
And, just like that, the atmosphere in the room snaps. A vein on Ross’s brow starts to throb, his skin flushing. There is one thing you never, ever do, unless you want a fight: you never, never ever never, ever, never, question an alpha’s potency.  
   
“Actually,“ Tony interrupts, desperate to stop Ross from ripping off Warren’s arm and sending America toppling into an all-out civil war. “It’s not – Thaddeus. Or even for lack of trying.” Tony lays a hand on Ross’s arm, because there’s one thing that should be bound to make Warren feel sheepish. “I miscarried, last week.” Lie, lie, lie. Tony tries to get a bit weepy about it. “Sometimes, these things happen.” He considers shaking his fist at the sky and questioning ‘why? Why?’ for extra effect, but decides that’s probably a bit much.  
   
Warren twists his head to stare at him. “Oh, Of Ross,” he says poisonously, “I suppose those who have been afflicted with diseased minds don’t think much of what our Lord outlays in the scriptures. He warned of this time, when omegas would grow loose with their affections. He warned that he would convey sterility into our wombs.”  
   
Tony stares. “Excuse me?” He blurts.  
   
“Don’t try and pretend to be pious,” Warren spits. “Please, I know what the both of you want. I see now that I was mistaken to have even tried to make you see reason. _You,”_ Warren says fiercely, pointing a finger in Tony’s direction, “are subversive. Your alpha may be too stupid to see it, but I see _exactly_ what you’re trying to do.”  
   
“I have no idea – “  
   
“If you were mine, I would have you gagged.” Warren says, shortly. “Learn to shut your mouth.”  
   
Tony turns to Ross. _Are you going to say something?_ He burns with his eyes. _Are you going to let him speak to me like that, or am I going to have to say something?_  
   
“Look,” Ross says, holding up his hands. “Clearly, something’s gone wrong here. Tony, apologise to Warren, please.” _Bastard,_ Tony spits inwardly, _he can’t even look me in the eyes._  
   
“No.”  
   
A raised eyebrow. “Tony,” Ross says, gritting his teeth. “Apologise to Alpha Warren for speaking out of turn, so we can continue our conversation.”  
   
_He wants_ me _to apologise, so he doesn’t have to. So he can save face, play the big alpha._ Tony’s blood is starting to boil. He can feel it, under his skin, threatening to melt his muscles. _Who do you think you are?_ He screams in his head, _who the fuck are you to treat me like this? After I’ve cooked your meal and cleaned your dead house, arranged your meetings, done my best to make this go easy for_ you. Tony snaps his head to glare at Warren, sneers, and after all this time, the façade he’s kept for so long, maintained and cultivated so carefully, he spits:  
   
“Go suck a fat one, you fucking cunt.”  
   
   
After, Tony is washing dishes in the sink.  
   
He feels strange, exhausted, but jittery. It’s strange; for a moment, he had almost – not come to _like_ Ross, but to at least understand him. His husband, for the briefest time, hadn’t seemed like a monster, but just a lonely man who made questionable choices.  
   
Now, though, he realises he’s married a spineless wonder. The kind of alpha that’s incapable of ever really bearing their teeth and fighting for their own. No wonder Betty Ross hates him. No wonder he’s been alone, all these years. He’s impotent, a waste of a knot, the lowliest of the fucking low and Tony _hates_ him for it, hates that this insignificant little man was able to get him in his bed, was even able to force him into marriage in the first place.  
   
Disgusting. Most of all, Tony is disgusted with himself for letting it get this far. He should have bucked up sooner, but late is better than never.  
   
“So you were on fine form tonight,” Ross cries, rounding on him after he’s shut the front door. “What the fuck was that, Tony?! I can’t get you to speak for a month, let alone argue, and suddenly on the one night you’re literally _required_ to just sit there and look pretty you change your goddamned mind? What the fuck is wrong with you? Did you do it on purpose? Are you trying to ruin me, is that it?!”  
   
“He makes you look like a liberal. Warren is an idiot.”  
   
“ _Warren_ is _crucial_ in passing our healthcare bill. Don’t you understand that? It’s not just about you, and the point you have to prove, it’s about _actual_ legislation that effects actual lives. Jesus fucking – I can’t believe you did that.”  
   
“Do you want to gag me?” Tony says calmly, washing a dish. “Or should I bend myself over your knee, let you tan me? Would that make you feel better?” The water is so cool on his heated skin, like ice, like – smooth, and clear.  
   
Ross moves fast, faster than Tony could expect. He forgets Ross is so strong, so so strong for an old man. He has his hand on the back of Tony’s neck; not squeezing, but firm. A threat. It would hurt, if Ross pinched him here. Even Obie wouldn’t do it all the time; there’s something particularly obscene about taking the softest, most sensitive part of an omega’s body and using it to hurt.  
   
He presses Tony down slightly, against the cool marble countertop. “Don’t you dare ever show me up like that in front of anyone again, do you understand?”  
   
Tony jerks his chin, swallows. “Yes,” he croaks.  
   
“Yes’ what?”  
   
“Yes, alpha. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”  
   
Ross smooths his hand flat against Tony’s nape and strokes him there once, gently. “I’m going to bed,” he says shortly. “I’m going back to DC tomorrow, so I’ll be out of your hair.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“For what it’s worth,” Ross says, standing in the doorway, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, because a few people have asked: Rhodes doesn't exist in the same capacity as he does in the MCU. Tony never went to MCU, so they never formed a friendship, but hope it shows that there's still something there despite social convention keeping them apart.
> 
> I promised Steve would be here, I lied, this chapter ran away with me. But 100%, the next chapter starts with the team's return.
> 
> I kind of tried to base Warren's beliefs off the crazy religious nuts and how that would translate in this universe. I finally got round to watching handmaids tale, so thanks to everyone who recommended it. It was weird to see the whole religious-sexuality-obsessed thing actually done on TV.
> 
> Sorry this was so late -- summer is busy.
> 
> Comments! I love them! Especially what you think of Tony and Ross -- and Tony's inner monologue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains a scene with attempted sexual assault. There is no rape, but it's heavily implied that this was the intention.

Tony is still at his peak when Ross leaves.

It’s hard to put together the sequence of events – Ross works during his heats, which is usually a blessing. But he’s at the middle of his cycle, when he’s at the tip of his haze, and he can barely tell up from down, let alone why Ross is screaming into his cell.

It hurts. Deep in his stomach, wracking cramps. There’s no chance of pregnancy, although Ross doesn’t know that, so why is he leaving? Tony curls his hands around his stomach and groans into a pillow, huffs, tries to ride out the worst. At least he can touch himself, he thinks blearily, head fuzzy. At least he can touch himself, even if riding his own four fingers is deeply unsatisfying. Better than Obie, who used to just leave him, tie his hands and let him overheat, steam. Worse than Steve, who would cover him head to toe so he could shiver, held, and open, wet and loose, toes curling, back arching –

“This is for you.”

Tony should have a sense of decency, or embarrassment, but during a heat his body doesn’t belong to him. Pride goes out the window, and he’s done worse for a fuck. John averts his eyes, but his nostrils are flaring because Tony must smell pretty ripe. He can’t make words – his brain has melted into goo – but he can sort of figure out why John is holding up a robe. His fingers fumble and he can’t really sit up properly, but he manages to cover himself sufficiently. “And this,” John says, passing him a glass of water and a – tablet?

Tony huffs, shakes his head, pulls his lips into a thin line. _No!_ His hindbrain tells him, _that’s bad!_ But John is insistent, poking at him in a way that riles him up, and if he keeps doing that Tony will have to –

“Don’t _bite_ me,” John snaps. It’s only a little nibble, and he shouldn’t be so worked up about it, Tony thinks. “It’s for the heat. To make it easy. Don’t ask where he got it, I don’t know, but he’s decided you need it, because he needs you functional, understand?”

Tony doesn’t. Everything stays hazy for about an hour, and then he’s vomiting in the toilet. “What did you give me?” He croaks, spitting, head dizzingly clear. It’s like – he’s in heat, definitely, but his mind isn’t playing ball. There is a _reason_ omegas go fucked in the head during their cycle, Jesus Christ, Tony feels like his insides are playing tug of war between two hulks.

John is calm, cool, collected, waiting for Tony to finish. “You should shower, wash off your scent, and meet us downstairs.”

Haha, funny John, thinking Tony can actually _walk._ He manages to stand, yes, but it’s wobbly. Fuck Ross for this – let it be known, Tony would rather have the heat with Ross than deal with the sloppy feeling of his insides falling out his ass, the constant cramping, the sweats, and the sensation of two soccer balls between his legs.

Ross frowns at him when he finally makes it into the study. “You’re still heating,” he says, as if it’s somehow Tony’s fault. “The pill was supposed – “

“I don’t know,” Tony grits, “what kind of – black market shit you’re given me, but fucking hell it better be worth it.”

“Yeah, well, you and me both,” Ross snaps. “Sit down. Or stand. I don’t care.” Ross is looking out of the window, hands braced on the wall. “Are you capable of being honest?” He asks, flatly.

Tony frowns. Is he…? What?

He’s found Tony’s birth control. That has to be it. He’s found his birth control, and so he’s stopping Tony’s heat and sending him away, probably. Probably? Right? That’s sounds like something he’d do.

“I… think so,” Tony says slowly. “It depends what you’re asking.”

“Did you know?”

“Did I know what?”

Ross snorts, turns. “Cute,” he sneers. “I’m asking, did you _know.”_

Tony is _flummoxed._ “Did I fucking know what?” He asks incredulously. “Don’t just repeat the question, give me some detail.”

Almost imperceptibly, Ross sniffs. He’s trying to pick up if Tony’s telling a lie. Usually, Tony is very good at hiding it; Natasha taught him how, long ago. He’ll never be as good, but still, he can cover himself when the occasion calls for it. Right now, the occasion doesn’t call for it. He seriously has no idea what Ross is talking about.

His dear, sweet alpha grunts, nods. “You really don’t know,” he says, “well, that’s – a relief, I suppose. Loyalty, Tony, is all I need from you. Ever. It’s all I’ve ever wanted from you.”

Not true, but now probably isn’t the time to get picky. “I know,” he says, cautiously. “And I’ve told you, I’m loyal to a fault.”

“Can I hold you to that?” Ross says, and when he turns, Tony sees he’s trying to make a joke, painful smile on his face. “Because – we’re in this together now, you know that. What were the vows? You promised to – submit and obey, that was it.”

Tony is alarmed. “What’s happened?” He asks. “Are you – “ lowering his voice, “are you being – arrested, or something? Is this to do with Ellis? Because – I could talk to him, you know, I’m sure there’s something I could – “

“Ellis? Yeah, it’s Ellis. He’s – “ Ross sighs. “Well, why don’t you see for yourself.”

Ross picks up his laptop and sets it on the coffee table, indicates that Tony should sit. It’s a youtube video. Ellis is standing at a podium, canvassing support at some kind of rally somewhere, and that’s when he says something about country, and loyalty, and forgiveness. Patriotism, on and on, he rambles like that for awhile, and then –

Steve has –

He’s got –

On the screen, there’s –

 _He has a beard,_ is the first coherent thought that drifts through Tony’s mind. Then, _isn’t he looking well?_ Then he notes Barnes, standing in parade rest, wearing a _dress uniform,_ because there’s only one way Ellis is going to ever sell this and it’s by reminding the public that Barnes used to be a soldier, who scarified for his country, who…

Natasha’s there, the bitch that used to be his friend. They take centre stage, the others off somewhere, not deemed important enough for the presentation. And Ellis keeps prattling on, and Tony can’t take his eyes off of Steve, and he realises now why Ross made him pledge loyalty, and he feels a strange mix of – devastation, and regret, and _anger,_ but not at Ross, no, at the man who left him here and after all these long, long months –

“Ellis didn’t warn us,” Ross says, flatly. “He didn’t breathe a word. Two nights ago, we had dinner, and he never once mentioned this was his plan. He’s freezing me out.”

Oh, definitely. The Accords were Ross’s baby. Turning the Avengers into fugitives was _his_ plan. Ellis has other ideas, evidently. No doubt, Ross will be replaced soon enough.

This – doesn’t bother Tony, anymore. He has no more use for this alpha. Steve is back. He is safe. Tony doesn’t need to be married to the Secretary of State. Tony would laugh, if it wasn’t so tragic. Could Tony have held on, those eight months? Could he have waited for Steve?

No, probably not. He had been stupid. He had tried to run. If he hadn’t given Ross that ammunition… maybe. He could have held on. But as soon as Tony tried to flee, flew his suit illegally, Ross had grounds to lock him up. _That’s_ how he ended up married. Plus, he didn’t know what Steve was coming back, and eight months feels a lot longer when you don’t how it ends.

Barnes and Steve, standing shoulder to shoulder. Tony feels – dizzy. He must be, because Ross is suddenly propping him up, tipping his head back against the couch. “Do you need water?” He asks, uncharacterically dull. This isn’t how Tony thought he would meet the end. He thought it would be with bluster, and anger, and rage. Instead, Ross fills him a glass from a jug on the side and helps him drink. “I shouldn’t have got you up,” he says, “you look terrible. Do you need anything for the pain?”

Tony shakes his head. “I – am sorry. That this has happened to you.”

Ross grunts. “Thank you.”

“If it’s any consolation…” _you deserve it?_ “Retirement doesn’t have to be the end. And even if it was – you can do anything you want.” _With my money._ “You’ll have me,” Tony adds, lying, because nothing can ever really stop him trying to manipulate this man.

Ross looks at him appraisingly. “I know,” he says, easily. “We’re – quite the pair. There’s going to be a gala, to welcome them home. We’ll both need to be there. I don’t want to go, I’m sure you’re not thrilled to be seeing the man who – well. Anyway, we’ll need to make an appearance. You’ll need something to wear – it’s veiled, by the way.” Ross seems to slow down, slump. “I should resign before he forces me out.”

“That might be a good idea,” Tony says, quietly. “And when you do, remind him that he owes you, and you have ten times the experience dealing with super-powereds than anyone else he could find.”

Tony adds that just because he wants Ross to think he’s still on his side.

He’s not.

But so begins the struggle to disentangle himself. Not for Steve – never for Steve. Steve, as it stands, probably hates him. And even if he doesn’t hate him, he clearly doesn’t love him either. So once again, Tony is on his own. If he could get an annulment, somehow – maybe he can get Ross to beat him? Really beat him, break a few bones? Or something else… if Ross is shown to be unstable, Tony could initiate divorce, but it would be a long drawn out process. And then, he needs to find someone else to marry him. Rhodey! Hey, Rhodey probably would. And who knows, Tony might even come to love him, and they could be happy. Tony wouldn’t even mind having Rhodes’ kids, if that’s what he wants.

 _You’re so unbalanced,_ a nasty mind of Tony’s brain snaps and snarls. _You can’t treat people like that just to get what you want._

Ross sends him to bed. At some point, later in the day, he sends a doctor to check him out. Just the flu, they’re assured, although they both know it’s because Ross funnelled Tony with illegal drugs. Ross tells John to do the housework, and Tony gets to think.

His options:

  1. Wait it out. Ross hasn’t hurt him, and shows no intention of harming him at all. In fact, the more time goes by, the more Ross has come to share with him, to appreciate him, and to maybe even _care_ for him. Even if he’s not Secretary of State, the negatives of staying with him may be outweighed by the fact that Tony has no real way of divorcing him, short of outright asking him, or having him killed.
  2. If he could get Ross to hurt him, he could leave. Visibly hurt him, not just slap him a few times. Put him in the hospital. Very few alphas respect that outward sign of violence towards an omega; a spanking is one thing, cracking their head open is another. It’s a possible route, but at what cost? Does Tony really want to push Ross to a state where he could potentially get himself killed? He’s not actually a masochist, in fact he’s about as far from that as you can get. And even then, let’s say he gets his annulment, where does he go from there?
  3. Steve is – difficult. Tony doesn’t know where Steve stands. Could be he despises him, wants nothing to do with him. That’s – could be. Could be he’s decided Barnes is for him, instead. Tony isn’t – you know, he’s beyond lowering himself to maybe – if Steve said, later, that he still needed an omega for children…
  4. Tony, get your head together. If Steve has chosen someone else, he’s chosen someone else, and you need to move on. He didn’t write you, he _left_ you, he could have come at any time and helped you. You won’t know where Steve stands until you’re left alone with him, and that’s unlikely to happen. If he wants Bucky, so be it. Hold your head high, get the fuck over it.



But _God,_ it hurts. What kind of omega is he, unable to hold down an alpha, to have his alpha run away with _another,_ it’s just – humiliating. At least Ross doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t pretend to hold anything more than a passing affection for Tony, he doesn’t pretend their relationship is more than a mutual bargain. But Steve –

Steve told Tony he _loved_ him, that he would come back for him, that he was going to marry him, and Tony, the stupid, lovesick fool that he is, believed him. Naive. Fresh out of one marriage, he’d never even _flirted_ with another alpha, let alone slept with one, and then Steve came along and Tony just – went with it, and let his head be stuffed with stupid fucking lies and mistruths and delusions.

 _He hates you,_ Tony turns over in his brain, _he must. They probably laugh at you, all of them. Laugh at how you’ve married Ross. They think you’re a hypocrite. They think you’re a traitor. You_ are _a traitor._

Or maybe Tony’s being harsh. Maybe Steve had loved Tony, but when Bucky came back… hey, Tony was probably his rebound. His 70-year rebound, and Bucky was the ex, come back again to – just fuck it up. Fuck up everything. The first happy years Tony had ever had. Because he wasted his youth with a megalomaniac, and he’d thought Steve – was so _young,_ and stupidly good looking, and Tony almost couldn’t believe he’d ever want sloppy seconds like Tony. It was a crush. That was all. Hah, yes, Tony just had a stupid crush on Steve, but now he needs to join the real world and –

That’s the last time he ever gives anything up for an Alpha. Ever.

 

It’s customary to wear veils to galas. Tony’s used to it. Most omegas wear them flipped back, so they show the face, but tonight Tony keeps his down. He doesn’t want anyone to see his face. He knows everyone will be watching him tonight for a slither of emotion; any slip, any tell, that he’s not happy. They all want to see what happens when his old alpha walks across them floor, and shakes hands with his new husband. They’re all _dying_ for it.

Omegas on the balcony tonight, by Ellis’s request. He’s really stressing the traditional stuff. It means that Tony won’t have to stand by Ross’s shoulder and let his hand be kissed by his once-friends, but still. Something stings about being relegated to the side-lines while the people he once saved the world with take centre stage.

They don’t like him. Omegas, he means. The old-timers don’t trust him, not since the incident with the baby back in ’07, and the new-comers think he’s uppity. They’re both right, to be honest. Tony doesn’t like spending time with other omegas. It reminds him too much of everything he’s supposed to be, and everything he lacks. In short, it makes him feel inadequate, and so he has generally tended to avoid these gatherings.

Now, though, they’re strangely kind. Edward – they had been friendly, back in the day. He had been married to an old Russian alpha, and Tony thinks he still is, except that old Russian alpha has taken a new, young, alpha wife who treats him like shit and wants to get a second. Still, Edward has always been sharp, acerbic, and he smiles when Tony stands next to him, makes room and introduces him to the new ones, the ones he’s never met.

They all know each other, really. They were all raised together, one way or another. Tony went to school with at least seven, and the rest he knows from society gatherings, business socials, and mixers down at the club. Karina, she smiles sadly at him, and Rachel links her arm, nods at him with a look of pity. Ah, fuck, they all know, don’t they? They all know Steve left him for an alpha, and that now Ross is going to have to shake his hand, and it’s going to be one of the most painful nights of Tony life but also they don’t mind because they’ve all been through it too.

“Nice veil,” Edward says, passing him a flute of champagne. “You going to show your face at all?”

“No.” Tony says shortly. Edward is a flirt. He flirts with other omegas, that is. It’s not – common. You hear about it sometimes. It’s the kind of thing that Puritans like Warren consider the ultimate sin, omega lying with omega, because there can be no children produced, not even if it’s a male-presenting with a female-presenting. Edward does a good job of keeping his proclivities to himself; his old alpha is too old to get it up, anyway. But his new one…

“She hates me,” Edward says bluntly, like it’s funny. “Look, there she is.” He points at a blond woman, around 40, with a severe face and hair cut in a bob. “She’s only with Ivan for the money, and he’s too senile to tell. There was a merger,” he explains, “they thought they’d shore it up with a marriage. But now, I’m saddled with _her,_ and she wants to get in some other young thing for children. I had it so good,” Edward laughs, “Poor Ivan could never breed one on me, and he’d been dead soon anyway. But she,” and Edward’s face darkens. “She wants to have me sent away.”

Sent away. Tony keeps hearing that, but he doesn’t know what it means. “Sent where?” He asks, quietly.

“One of those – houses. The facilities, you know, ‘spas’, except they’re not. They’re private prisons. You know – “ Edward lowers his voice, furtive, “you remember Alice? The sweet young girl? Strawberry blond?”

Alice. Tony does remember her. She had been nice, very kind, always kind to Tony, even after – well. “I know her.”

“Her alpha,” he mutters, “got a second. A new bitch, mail-order straight from Sokovia. Anyway, she wasn’t happy with having her pup play second place, so she had the alpha send Alice away. And now, she’s mommy to Alice’s kids too, and Alice doesn’t get to see them except on birthdays. And that was two years ago.”

“Jesus,” Tony breathes. “That’s – “ he almost says ‘breathtaking’, but he doesn’t mean it in a good way. The idea of being separated from his children – obviously, he doesn’t have any, but if he did…

“My new one,” Edward continues, “she likes to use the prod. You know? If I’m not there in time, if I look at her funny, she just – “ Edward mimics being electrocuted, eyes rolling back into his head. “Ivan doesn’t even say anything. I don’t think he knows.” They both look out, over the hall, at the alphas mingling. “But enough about me,” he says. “What’s new with you?”

“Oh,” Tony says, dully, because his stomach is threatening to spill today’s breakfast all over the floor. “Not much.”

“Bullshit. Stark, you’ve been into space! Last time we talked… God, it might have been your old alpha’s funeral. You’ve saved lives! You’ve actually – _done_ something. Achieved something. You always were too clever,” Edward adds, bitterly. “It must be hellish for you.”

“No,” Tony says absently. “I love my alpha. Ross is so good to me. I’m very happy.” He trots out the line.

“Oh sure,” Edward agrees. “I love both my alphas. They’re so kind to me. I can’t wait for them to get a second, so we can all have children and be a proper family.” Edward rolls his eyes and takes a sip. “See? Two can play at that game.”

“What do you want me to say, Ed?” Tony asks tiredly. “I got – abandoned. I didn’t have a choice. They – were going to imprison me. Really imprison me, in the Raft.” Edward looks at him blankly. “It’s like – a very big prison, underwater. Very difficult to get out of.”

“Oh,” Edward says, “I get it. Because of those – what were they? Those document, things. I don’t really follow the news.”

Depressingly common among omegas these days. “The Accords,” Tony says, quietly. “Ellis and Ross. They basically told me I could either marry one of them, or spend the rest of my life underground. And with me they get my money. They get my suits. They get my company. And – I didn’t know if or when Steve was ever coming back. So.”

“But now he’s back.”

“Yeah,” Tony says dully. “Now he’s back.”

Edward shrugs. “I don’t see why it should stop you.”

“Stop me from what?”

“Taking what you want. I do.”

Tony turns. “You – shouldn’t say things like that so openly,” he mutters, checking to see if anybody has heard. “You could get – sent away, for things like that.”

“And? Who cares if I do? What do I have left here anyway? Old alphas like to watch omegas pet each other all the time, but the second I do it of my own free will it’s _immoral._ I don’t care. The ice queen is going to send me away anyway, I might as well take pleasure where I can.” Edward turns and looks down at him, smirking. “What about you?” He asks. “Would you? I’ve always pegged you for a breed-traitor.”

“I’m not,” Tony says, “and while I admire your can-do attitude, I think I might have a bit more to lose. I don’t actually _want_ to be sent away. And I need a license. And – I don’t think Steve loves me all that much anyway.”

“So what, he loves his alpha buddy more? Fine. It happens. When the time comes, they’ll be wanting an omega for breeding. You slot yourself right back in there, and you’ll be fine. Just – right inbetween those two beefcakes.” Edward laughs, “if I wasn’t the way I was, I’d be jealous.”

Tony goes quiet. “I – don’t really want to be someone’s second choice,” he admits. “And it’s stupid, anyway, because Ross will never let me go.”

“Have you tried getting him to beat you?”

“Thought about it. Not sure it’s worth the brain damage.”

There’s a hush, suddenly, and Ellis is standing. Ross moves to the centre of the floor, looking alienated, but forced to be front and centre. “They’re here,” Tony hears someone whisper, and his throat – closes up. He can’t breathe, suddenly, and he’s grateful for the veil, but his hands are sweating and he can’t breathe _at all._

He has to watch, though. Steve enters first. He’s tall, shoulders wide, smiling like that’s not a single thing wrong in his world, Barnes at his shoulder. Barnes at his shoulder. _Barnes at his shoulder._ The president holds out a hand, and Steve takes it easily, all charm and grace and easy lines, curls a hand around Bucky’s back and –

Tony has turned to leave, but Edward is holding his wrist. “Just for the welcomes,” he grits from the side of his mouth. “If you leave now, everyone will know.”

Tony is sick in his mouth. Steve is standing with – Ross. He holding Ross’s hand, he’s welcoming Bucky, he’s shaking, Ross is leaning forward, smiling his shark grin, Steve is –

Tony really, really, really can’t take it. He doesn’t know why, it’s irrational, but he doesn’t want – this. He sees their looks of pity when he leaves, hears their muttering, the way they whisper behind his back, and he doesn’t _care._ He just wants to leave this balcony, he wants to stop seeing what he’s seeing, and he wants time to think.

He makes his way to the O lounge. It should be empty; hypothetically, everyone is watching the Avengers return, so Tony should have at least ten minutes before the room floods with omegas clucking like hens. He helps himself to the little bar, hand shaking so hard the ice spills over the sides, downs it quickly, slams it, fills another. Maybe this is what he needs, to be drunk enough that they’ll send him home. Not – home, Tony shouldn’t call it home. He means back to Ross’s house.

“Oh hi Tony,” someone says, lazily.

Tony spins. He isn’t alone. Nick of Warren is sitting on one of the couches, feet propped up on a little chair, and munching on a glass of ice. He’s swollen. Like really – really pregnant. Tony does math in his head – last time he saw Nick was two months ago at the dinner party. He could have been carrying then, maybe. He didn’t mention it, though. And he smiles dozily at Tony, one hand cradling his belly. “I didn’t want to be out there,” he says, “Warren said I could hide in here. It’s better than being corrupted.”

Tony opens his mouth and closes it again. “Right,” he says, panic momentarily forgotten. “Corrupted by…”

“The others,” Nick chirps happily. “I didn’t realise, the night I went to yours. I wouldn’t have drunk so much wine if I had known.”

“That you were – “

“Carrying.”

“Right.” Tony turns away, back to the drinks, and helps himself to one more. He’s going to get drunk, he realises, but he reconciles himself to it. It doesn’t even matter.

“You don’t need to be jealous,” Nick says lightly, “Warren says it comes to every omega in our time. I’m sure you’ll have one soon.”

Nick sounds doped out of his mind. “Sure, sweetheart,” he manages. He doesn’t need to snap at a carrying O, he’s not that far gone. Nick seems happy, if not utterly broken, but Nick isn’t his responsibility, so Tony isn’t going to think about it. He hogs the bar while Nick hums to himself, chatters inanely, and keeps facing the wall when the other come pouring in.

And then Natasha.

She’s wearing red, flaunting as usual, always pushing boundaries. Her cloak is loose over her shoulders, but she just unclips it, hands it another O who is just _so_ grateful to take it from her, because although she’s only young Natasha has always been a pack leader. Tony used to be, maybe, but he’s worn down. He’s the definition of sloppy seconds. Nobody notices him anymore, except when they want to give him pity.

She lifts her veil, flips it over her head, and she’s wearing her hair long. “Thank you,” she says to the O, who looks awestruck, mumbles a ‘no problem’, and scuttles off to hang it somewhere safe. The rest of them crowd her, ask her who she’s wearing, is she glad to be back? Is she bound, does she like their jewellery, and who holds her license now that the bill is in place? Does she want a drink, does she want a shoulder massage, they just _love_ her lipstick –

Tony could leave. Right now, if he left, no one would notice. He could go, jack a car, drive and drive and drive until he reached the border. The have programmes in Canada for people like him who need to get divorces. They wouldn’t just hand him back. Making money would be easy, there’s a million different things he could do, all he has to do is back up, turn, and leave. He can’t breathe in here, he can’t breathe in his veil, he hates sitting with the pious, the brain-dead, the omegas married for so long any speck of life has been sucked out of him. He wishes he could wear red again. He wants to wear gold.

His feet are moving before his brain engages. He’s allowed to walk around the building, it’s allowed. He slips past Natasha and she doesn’t even notice, because that’s how flattened his scent has become, that’s how innocuous he looks in a blue veil and a blue suit. He’s opening the door and sliding through, standing alone in the wide open hallway, and he can just walk. He does. He walks and walks and walks, braces himself against the wall, tugs off his tie, flips up his veil and takes deep gasping breaths, breaths which shatter him, take up all his energy. He can’t breathe, but no one cares, and he’s alone here in this corridor while his once friends dance and the alpha he loved so much takes another man’s arms –

“Did you think I wouldn’t see you?” Natasha huffs, pacing down the hallway, heels snapping against the marble floor. “Did you think you could just leave, and I would, what, not notice? I’m not stupid, you know.”

“No,” Tony mumbles, shaking his head, turning away. “No, no, no – “

Natasha catches his wrist, holds him tight. “Tony,” she breathes, and her eyes are wide, face concerned. Her hand is cool, and she presses it against his brow, his cheek. “Look at you,” she whispers, hushed. “What have they done to you?”

Tony snatches his arm away. “Nothing,” he says shortly. “No one has done anything to me. I’m just – it was hot in there. Can’t I get a moment of peace? I just wanted air, I didn’t ask for – “

Natasha is pulling him away to the French doors that open onto a balcony. “Here,” she says, “fresh air.” She shuts it behind them, binds the handles with Tony’s discarded tie. “Privacy,” she adds, “is that better?”

Tony won’t meet her eyes. “There’s nothing to say,” he breathes.

Natasha cups his cheek urgently, examines his eyes. “Does he hurt you?” She asks, quickly. “I tried to find everything I could about his last wife, but there’s barely anything on public record. She died of natural causes, as far as anyone could tell, and I could only find speculation about you, because you don’t _leave_ his house, ever. Does he lock you up? Tell me, now, we can do something about it. We’ll fake your death if it comes to that, if he has ever laid a hand on you – “

“He hasn’t. He’s never hit me.”

“But other ways?”

“No. He’s never hurt me.”

Natasha looks confused, briefly. “Steve wrote to you,” she says, voice low. “Every week. Did you not – get them?”

“No,” Tony says levelly. “I never received any letters.”

Natasha draws back. “You’re angry,” she notes.

Tony just feels flat. Maybe he scents like anger, but he can’t smell it. He feels – numb. “No,” he says.

“You have every right to be angry.”

“Okay.”

“Steve – you’re all he’s talked about, for the last year.”

“That’s nice. I’m glad he missed me. I missed him too.”

“Tony, he’s not – with Barnes,” Natasha says awkwardly. “If that’s what you’re worried about…”

“I’m not worried. I know where his priorities lie.”

“Tony.”

“No no, really,” Tony goes a for a smile, waves a hand. “It’s fine. I’m – actually happy, Natasha. Did you think about that? Maybe I’m happy with Ross. He’s good to me, and he doesn’t cheat, and he doesn’t hit me. And you know, sure, he’d sell me in a heartbeat, but at least he’s honest about that. I know where I stand.”

“You’re not happy,” Natasha says, bluntly. “You stink. I mean, absolutely reek. Stress, whatever – something artificial, he’s got you on anti-depressants? I’m not here to – Tony!” He’d tried to turn away, and she’s taken his wrist. “I’m not here – harangue you, I don’t know. I just thought – “

Tony feels sick to his stomach. “So he loves me,” he spits bitterly, “and what? I wasn’t worth the trip back home. My happiness was easily traded for a shot at Barnes’ sanity. Facts speak for themselves, Natasha. I’m – “

“Drunk.”

 _“Tired._ If I’m not back soon, they’ll wonder where I am.”

“I’m not here to defend Steve to you, Tony. I’m worried about you because you smell like death warmed over and _I_ know – better than them, Tony – what marriage means to you, and I’m sorry Rogers wasn’t there to – “

“Wasn’t there? You make it sound like – he was held up, Natasha. He _left_ me, I saw him leave, and he _promised_ that he would – be back. That he wouldn’t forget me. You know I spent my whole wedding watching doors, right? Because I convinced myself there was no way Steve would actually let me go through with it. Bad excuse, I know. But right up to the moment Ross shoved his big fat knot up my ass and – did what he did, I still honestly believed he was coming. And then weeks went by, months. I got used to the new status quo. You’re right, I _am_ numb, I’m – robotic, but I didn’t have a choice, and _he_ did. He did. And it doesn’t matter how much he loves me, he didn’t love me enough when it mattered.”

Natasha is quiet, and so is Tony. Then she turns, and smooths down his lapels, flattens the veil back against his head. “Do you remember when we met?” She asks conversationally.

Taken off guard, Tony frowns. “What?”

“The day we met. I was investigating Stane – and you, because Fury had heard the strangest rumours, that Stane had a suit of iron and – get this, his _omega_ built it, in a cave. I thought that was just the stupidest thing I’d ever heard, because I’d seen you before and I thought you were a bit thick, if not absolutely crazy. And I was your – what was it?”

“Therapist,” Tony frowns. “And you were shit.”

“Right. And I couldn’t get anything from you, other than the fact you were a neurotic alcoholic with too much work and an alpha would sometimes beat you bloody on a whim.”

“Okay. Thank you, Natasha, for a trip down memory lane. I literally never asked – “

“And then I slept with Stane, for intel, or whatever. It seemed important at the time. But the next day at our session, you knew, and you’d obviously fought Stane about it because you had these… bruises. I felt awful. And I thought, ‘here comes the jealous O’ routine, because I could see that you were seething, but you just – pretended you weren’t. And it was amazing. And I thought – okay. If he can hide this, what else can he hide?”

An entire garage, six suits of armour, an education higher than high school -- Tony was good at hiding. “You _did_ sleep with him,” Tony is just now remembering. God, he’d wanted to tear out her throat – he’d already had to deal with Obie’s bastard son, and he was used to the string of omegas trotting out of their bed, but he’d come to _trust_ Natasha, barely, and he’d never really had an omega friend before, so when she had done that he had – grr. He was not a happy bunny. “That was a really shitty thing to do.”

“I know. The point is, what I’m trying to get at, in my long-winded way, is that a) I’m not as good a judge of character as I thought, and b) you are spectacularly good at putting on an act. And that’s coming from me, Tony. _Me._ My whole life is an act, and even I’m impressed.”

“I don’t follow,” Tony sniffs.

“It’s impressive, what you’ve done with Ross. No one else will acknowledge that, but I will. It seems like you’ve maybe even won his affection which is – an achievement, to say the least. And I know,” Natasha says quietly, resting a hand on his wrist, gentle gentle, “how exhausting it is. To have to pretend like that, all the time. And to have to – bend for them, when they want it, and beg, and scrape by. But with Steve, you never had to pretend. He was always honest with you and you were always honest with him and – this hasn’t worked out how it was supposed to work out, but we’re here now. And for what it’s worth, he loves you. And he’ll try to fix it, as best he can.”

“Yeah. Well.” Tony shrugs, and looks across the green gardens. “We’ll see.”

“I really did miss you.”

“I don’t doubt it.” A beat; “I missed you, too.”

Natasha smiles, offers her arm. “May I escort you back?”

“No,” Tony says. “I’m – really drunk. Give me a minute to cool off, I’ll meet you in the lounge.”

Tony should probably think things through, in this brief moment of peace. His head is spinning, and he kind of wants to be sick over the edge of the balcony. Steve wrote to him, supposedly. Natasha wouldn’t lie about that. It means someone stopped him from getting the letters. Could be Ross, could be anyone. Tony is too tired to think about it now.

He turns back inside, quietly closing the door behind him. He’s been gone too long, someone will have noticed. Tony paces, and he catches a buzz, like a mosquito in his ear. He doesn’t even move in time; someone has jammed a sharp, burning pulse against the back of his neck, and he screams into a hand clapped against his mouth, goes limp, falling back into someone’s arms.

“Warren sends his regards,” the alpha breathes in his ear, hot, wet, and then he throws him to the floor. “He said something about – making you suck a fat one? It might be an inside joke, I don’t know.” Tony just about manages to get his hands out in front of his face, but he gets winded, and misses a crucial second to climb back to his feet, head hitting the floor, lights above him spinning in circles.

Three alphas. Tony blinks rapidly, gets a grip on the situation, his legs won’t – really move, not with the sudden numbness, so he kicks, _hard,_ and catches one of them in the groin. It’s satisfying, briefly. But the first alpha, the one who caught him, twirls some kind of baton and rams it against Tony’s right breast, turns on the pulse and – _Jesus,_ Tony is shocked, jerking, biting his tongue.

“So here’s what we’ll do,” the alpha says, breathless. “We were gonna go easy on you, but then you had to go hurt my friend over there, which was so _bad,_ Of Ross. So, to make it up to him, you’re going to let him stuff his knot in you, understand? And if you do that nicely, and don’t make a fuss, we won’t hurt you anymore, and you can go on your way.” The alpha laughs, then breathes heavily, eyes blown with lust, spilling _hatefuckfuckhatebreed_ into the air. “Jesus, watching you swan around all those years, like you were something special. Like you were _alpha.”_ The man laughs again, Tony tries to scream, and someone claps a hand over his mouth. “And now look at you,” he simpers, popping the button on Tony’s pants, sliding his belt out from beneath him, “you’re just one other bitch.”

There are loud whistles and jeers when they pull down his pants and the stupid, skimpy things Ross buys him. “Open your mouth,” the alpha leers, panties gripped in his hand, “open wide, pretty baby. I want to see you with silk in your teeth.”

They hold his nose until he has to breathe through his mouth. They bind the panties with his belt. The hard leather cuts into the edges of his lips. Silk sticks to his tongue. He thinks he might choke.

Turn him over, shirt rucked up his hips, someone sitting on his back, someone spreading his legs. He seizes an opportunity; alpha number 2, standing guard in front of him, and so Tony grabs hold of his legs and _pulls,_ topples him to the floor. Before alpha 1 gets him with the baton, Tony has smashed his face with his foot, blood smearing over his sole. “Jesus,” alpha 1 screams, and he holds Tony down, lays the baton flat against the back of his neck, shocks him, and this time the pain is so excruciating Tony has no choice but to drool onto the floor. _At least I got two,_ he thinks drowsily, feeling himself being dragged across marble. That second alpha will need some kind of surgery, he’s sure.

Someone is leaning on his back, and he can’t get air to his lungs. His nose is blocked with snot and blood, his mouth gagged by the belt. He can’t breathe, and no one cares. They’ll keep going even if he’s dead, probably. Choking. He’s choking. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t –

Then the pressure is gone, and he’s taking wheezing, gasping breaths, as deep as he can.

He tries to roll onto his back – someone has bound his hands with his tie, and can’t scrabble free. He tries to crawl forward, but his head is fuzzy, and there are _things_ going on around him that he can’t quite quantify in this state, so he does the next best thing to fighting and rolls over, bares his neck, waits it out. Head back, belly up, yes, this is about as submissive as you can get him, genuine submissive, waiting for the alphas to finish their fight and just trying to stay alive --

The hands holding him are rough, unfamiliar, hard. Tony’s limbs are so heavy from the shocks, but as soon as the alpha frees his wrists he’s slashing, nails digging into fleshy cheek, and then howling, scraping, biting, windmilling his arms like a fucking savage. _DO NOT TOUCH ME!_ His brain is screaming _DO NOT TOUCH ME OR I WILL KILL YOU!_ He gives a guttural roar and runs at his attacker, is dodged easily and grabbed again. He strikes out with a fist, and hits metal. His brain won’t let him form coherent thoughts, so he _bites,_ takes a chunk out of the arm wrapped around his chin, holding him firm, and the alpha drops him like a sack of potatoes, blood in his mouth with – ugh, some skin, too.

Tony spits onto the marble floor, blood making his hands skid, his grip unsteady. He’s still naked from the waist down, and he must look like such a fucking fool in only a dress shirt, kicking and screaming. _I win!_ Tony’s brain crows triumphantly, _I win! I win! Hah! HAH!_

The alpha tastes like – salt, and coal. These scents are surprisingly okay to Tony – he likes coal, reminds him of Christmas. Salt is bad. Salt is – eugh, uck. Too much salt is bad for you. He’s licks the blood from his skin – it’s coal blood, and also blood that tastes like soda, from the other alpha, the one whose face he broke.

Tony quietly licks his wound, conscious of new threats. He can see people, circling him, but none of them attack, or even try to come near him, so it’s okay – for now. Tony’s neck is burnt, and the places they shocked him are tight, muscles swollen, skin broken and cracked. He’s okay though, and no one has hurt him too badly, because Tony can look after himself.

A flash; Tony looks up, sharp, from where he had been licking the palm of his hand. He narrows his eyes; threat? Hard to think, when he’s like this. Brain’s gone all fuzzy. He tries to clamber to his feet, even though he’s all discombobulated, and meets hard muscle when he backs away. Someone. A threat. This is his fault, should have paid more attention, he can’t fight anymore now he’s too tired and head not working, so Tony does the next best thing and growls, bearing his teeth. If this doesn’t work, he will bear his neck and belly but it _does,_ and the someone backs away. Good. _Good._ Tony is in charge.

Then soft hands, large, gripping him by the shoulders. The face blurs in and out of view; blond hair, blue eyes, lips moving, over and over, scent like fresh sheets and grass, strawberries, and –

Sound cuts in, Tony takes a sharp breath, hands digging themselves into Steve’s upper arms. “ – ony, Tony, Tony, it’s me Tony, it’s only me.”

It’s only him. First, a wash of _safesafesafe,_ an ecstatic feeling of _home!home!home!_ and then a realisation that _it’s you it’s you! It’s him! It’s him! He’s back! He’s back! He’s back!_

Then, Steve makes throaty grumble of surprise, noses along his hair, checking for _hurthurthurt,_ and all Tony scents is _hurt?hurt?helphelpPROTECTangeranger._ Good, pure scents. Steve’s cupped the back of his head, holding him there, and Tony is too strung out to do anything about that, until he slips lower, to his neck, and Tony –

Spits blood in his face, hisses, digs his nails into Steve’s arms until he winces, lets go like Tony’s a – a – hot potato, or something. His scent flaps into _hurthurthurt_ and _sadsadsad_ and Tony swipes his hand again, _stay away you liar! Stay away you – you faker! You liar! BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD_

“What have you done to him?” Ross is crying, frantic. He sounds objectively terrified, pushing past Steve in a way that’s asking for trouble and taking his face in his hands. Tony tolerates this, because he wants Steve to see how _bad_ he’s been, but also because Ross does sound suitably worried on his behalf. “He just had a heat – he could be carrying! Are you mad? What is _wrong_ with you people – “

“We didn’t fight,” Steve says, spitting blood onto the floor, dragging a hand across his mouth. Maybe Tony got him with an elbow, he didn’t mean to. “We _found_ him. Three alphas, all about to take a piece, maybe you should fucking watch him, and – “ Ross’s words seem to connect in his head, Tony can see the wheels and gears turning, and then he muscles forward, ready to slam Ross’s head into the ground. “A _heat,”_ Steve growls, ramming himself against Ross’s chest, “you even dare to talk about his – “

It’s Barnes, Tony realises. Tony had taken a chunk out of Barnes’ arm. Sorry not sorry, although maybe it’s bad because he only has the one good one. Barnes has wrapped his arm around Steve’s chest and is holding him back, although this won’t stop stupid, stupid Ross from getting in Steve’s face, pushing back.

“Didn’t you get the memo?” Ross snarls. “He’s mine. Has been for awhile now – hah, maybe if you weren’t off playing action man in Fuck-knows, Africa, you wouldn’t have missed your – “

“He’s not a bargaining chip, Ross, you can’t hold him against his – “

“Against his what? Will? You think I took him against his will? He came to _me,_ Rogers, he _begged_ me to take him in, you left him without a hope in hell and you’re shocked that – “

“I didn’t _leave,_ I wrote to him, every week, every _day,_ and where did those letters go, huh?” Steve pushes forward, Barnes holds him back, but his face is twisted it raw fury, his scent so powerfully angry that Tony tips back his chin without thinking, even though it’s not directed at him.

Ross’s nose wrinkles. “What the fuck are you talking about, Rogers?”

“You know full well what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t. I know you wrote him, or at least, I know he wrote you – I saw his attempt to contact you at the border.”

Steve stumbles back, momentarily taken off-guard. “He – what? You didn’t – Tony?”

Ross holds out an arm, blocking Tony from moving any closer. “You,” he snaps, pointing a finger at Natasha, who has appeared somewhere behind Steve. “Do you know first aid?”

“I do.”

“Help him. Get him some clothes.”

It’s Natasha with her small hands who gently sits him back down on the floor. “It’s alright,” Tony smiles, teeth bloody. Natasha doesn’t smell so sure. Tony is much taller than her, but her cloak still wraps around him well enough, decadent and warm. “Barnes tastes like coal,” he whispers to her, but she isn’t listening.

 “You left,” Ross says, bluntly. “You left, and you left him, and you broke the law. If it hadn’t been for me, Tony would be in jail or worse. I’m not here to – start a pissing contest. As it stands, he’s mine. I don’t owe you anything and neither does he. If you try to hurt me, I’ll have security called, and if you hurt them, you’ll be sent to the Raft. Let us leave, and we don’t need trouble.”

“Tony,” Steve croaks over Ross’s shoulder. “Tony – Tony look at me. You don’t need to go with him. Natasha, tell him. Tell him he doesn’t have to go with him.”

Natasha looks him the eyes, resigned, because she knows what an alpha could never know: Tony does have to go with him. Tony doesn’t get to just leave, or cut ties, or disappear, not now. He’s not alpha, he doesn’t get that luxury.

“Why?” Tony says vacantly. “I’m happy. I’m happy with Thaddeus. He’s my alpha and he is so good to me. I love him more than anything in the world.”

“How many times have you broke out that line?” Steve asks, desperately. “Tony. Tony, I’m sorry. Please, don’t leave with him.”

Ross is brimming with pride. Tony is surprised he just about doesn’t shoot a rocket from his ass and launch himself into the ceiling with it all. “He’s _loyal,”_ Ross sneers, “he values loyalty, and now he’s loyal to me. You missed your chance, Rogers. Go moon over someone else’s omega, this one is _mine.”_

“Another day,” Barnes is murmuring in Steve’s ear, because Steve has that look on his face – Tony has missed that look, where his cheeks go red and his eyes go hard and his fists are clenched tight. He could easily – easily – rip Ross apart like tissue paper, but he won’t, because Barnes is telling him not to, and Steve listen to Barnes, at least.

Who at least has the decency not to meet not to meet Tony’s eyes. He’s very submissive for an alpha, Tony thinks. He sees it in the slope of his shoulders, the way stands behind Steve’s shoulder. No wonder Steve loves him. They’re a perfect pair, their nature’s compliment each other well.

“I’ll see you soon,” Natasha promises, folding a cloak tight across Tony’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about Steve, I’ll talk to him.”

“Tony,” Steve tries again, desperate. “Tony, please. Look at me. Sweetheart, _please,_ just look at me.”

He does. Steve’s eyes are glass, as blue as he remembers. Alphas think they can have everything. Stupid Steve, Steve is always so stupid; he thinks Tony gets a choice about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more steve next chapter! tony won't be angry at him forever, obviously, but steve has some pretty convincing evidence up his sleeve. still, i think he's allowed to be angry for a bit, right? tony isn't going to have it as rough in the next few chapters -- he deserves some time to relax.
> 
> love your comments! they're the ultimate motivator.


	8. Chapter 8

Tony is shivery for – three days? Four? It’s hard to tell. Adrenalin wears off, and suddenly, he can barely move at all.

John has to feed him, bathe him, help him to the toilet. It’s not ideal, but he’d been struck – Tony can’t remember how many times they’d shocked his neck, too many, and the pain is –

Dizzying.

They put his neck in a brace, and the doctor tells him under no circumstances is he allowed to look left and right, which is great, fucking superior, because he’s left staring at the ceiling, or – just for flavour – face mushed in a pillow. He’s on bedrest, he’s not allowed to strain himself _at all,_ and if he wasn’t in so much pain he’d be downright miserable from boredom alone.

Luckily for him, the pain does keep him occupied. Sweeping fires in his nerves, cascading from a single twitch of his shoulders, a little move of his head. Sometimes it’s so bad it’ll leave him half-paralysed and drooling, clenching sheets until it passes, John simperingly wiping down his brow and making noises at ‘what a good boy he’s being’ because the doctor stressed that Tony is ‘just so fragile, so delicate, so open like this, you really need to push that positive reinforcement as much as you can’.

He’s half asleep, half awake, half… he’s dozing, zoned out, when he thinks Ross enters his little attic room. It’s late, so he should be sleeping, but he scents of cigar smoke and whiskey. “How is he?” He asks, voice rough.

“Doing well,” John answers, sleepily. “Pain isn’t so bad, he says.”

“Good. That’s good,” Ross says, hushed. “Can – could I see?”

“See?”

“His neck.”

John is gently tugging on Tony’s shoulders to sit him up, and Tony just – lets himself continue to doze. He doesn’t want to talk to Ross. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He wishes they didn’t treat him like an attraction at the zoo.

Fingers pry open the brace, toss it somewhere. “I replace the bandage twice a day,” John says. “There’s a cream, too.”

“Good good,” Ross says, distracted. His fingers are pinching the bandage, peeling it slightly away from skin. “Could you…”

“Right,” John says, delicately un-tacking the tape that sticks the big cotton pad to his neck. “It doesn’t look too bad, just – sore, you know?”

Ross inhales sharply, makes a sympathetic noise. “Oh, poor boy,” he murmurs, “what does that feel like, you think? Does it really hurt them?”

“He’s been pretty much out of it. Doctor said it’ll be tender for a while.”

Ross’s fingers are lightly tracing the skin, but it’s too much, _too much,_ is he stupid? Tony’s body gets confused, tripped up. He relaxes, sags against Ross, but then the pain scratches at him, deep, sharp, dizzying. He can’t help himself, he makes hurt noises, stupid little whines and scents the air with _hurthurthurt,_ and Ross jerks his hand away. “Oh,” he whispers, “sorry. I didn’t think.”

Tony can’t really form a reply, and now he’s too strung out to even move, so he lets Ross stroke his hair and hold him firm, saying things like ‘poor boy’, and ‘how awful’, and ‘what a good boy, what a good boy’.

“Give him something to bite,” John says, and Tony tries to sit up. God, he hates this part, he _hate_ it, despises it, it’s the worst, the worst, and it’s not even necessary he’s sure, he’s sure the doctor just said it to make it hurt him. Tony obstinately grinds his teeth when Ross tries to push a thick cotton bandage in his mouth.

“No,” he mumbles, “no, I don’t need it.” He slaps his hand uncoordinatedly across Ross’s chest. “I don’t,” he says, “tell him not to.”

“Do you need to?” Ross asks. “It looks pretty much healed,” he adds, weakly.

“Yes, he needs it. I know he hates it, that’s why he should bite the cotton.”

Tony hates John. He hates Ross. He hates Warren. He hates anyone who – who touches him _there –_

Tony fights feebly, and it just makes the whole thing worse. It’s only gel, if Tony just wouldn’t fight it would hurt less anyway, but rubbing the salve on is rough and he doesn’t like when people touch there now, he never has, and he bites his tongue jerking, cries hot, fat tears, and by the end he’s pressed his head into Ross’s belly, shameful, hating himself, but taking comfort where it comes.

“There there,” Ross is saying, gruffly, standing over him, stroking down his hair. “It’s not that bad, it’s done now. You – were very good. That’s right. Settle down.”

Last time Tony had been hurt _there,_ it had been some psycho at a board meeting. Tony had still had a job back then. He’d proposed – something, he can’t remember, and he was fighting with one particular alpha, one of the old guard, a friend of Obie’s who still thought of him as the omega that served the drinks. And when Tony had turned his back, spitting with irritation, he had reached over, grabbed him by the scruff, and just – shook him.

Tony wasn’t even hurt _that_ badly, it was more a dominance show, but the alpha was kicked near to death by Tony’s CFO, who apparently took personal offence that _anyone_ would dare do such a thing to an omega, even if that omega was their boss. Tony’s board was always a weird mix of liberal and traditional – the important thing is, there isn’t a single person there who thought pinching him was a good idea.

Steve found out, obviously, and went ballistic. Tony’s very good at protecting his soft spots in battle, it’s never an issue in the suit. But out in the open… yikes. It’s fair game.

He had tried to sue for bloodright – Tony thought that went way too far, but he was flattered that Steve cared enough to try. Nothing gets you hot like your alpha suing to kill the man who pinched your neck. Oh, he’d been so kind, held Tony so tight, snuggled him until all that anger and frustration melted into something sweet and mellow. Steve. Steve, fuck, _Steve –_

“Shh,” Ross is saying, gentleness fraying. “C’mon, it can’t be that bad. Why are you still crying? John? What’s wrong with him? Does he normally do this?”

John is plastering a thick bandage back against his neck and taping it down. “It hurts them,” is all he says, shortly.

Tony’s bawling like a baby, and he hopes he won’t remember it in the morning. He’ll blame it on the meds if Ross ever brings it up again. He’s not crying because it hurts, he’s taken worse pain.

He just feels –

He’s so –

He only married Ross so he could help Steve. It was their deal. Steve would leave with Bucky, Tony would secure his release, and then that way they both get what they want. Tony would get his Accords, Steve would get his – Bucky.

And so Tony married Ross, against his better judgement, and he _tried_ to do something, tried to keep tabs, tried to keep in touch. He tried to do his best. Steve came back, anyway. Tony’s efforts were for nothing. And now he tells him – he sent letter’s Tony never received, that he loves him, he wants him, that he and Bucky are nothing compared to –

Tony wouldn’t be here, in this bed, in this house, burying his head in Ross’s shoulder, if Steve just hadn’t left. And maybe it’s selfish, but Tony’s so tired now. He hurts all over. He wants this to be over. He wants things to be the way they used to.

Ross’s touch is cloying, heavy-scented and sticky. “Get away,” he croaks, pushing at Ross’s chest, “get away, I don’t want this. I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want it – “

“Well now what’s the fuss?” Ross asks, irritably. “John – take care of this, would you?”

Tony bares his teeth and _snaps,_ (very very rude). He can’t articulate the words, just a – a deep-seated instinct to get Ross AWAY and GONE. He doesn’t want him to touch him, he doesn’t want him to stroke his hair, that is his STEVE’S job.

“I want to go home,” Tony rasps, begging, but he’s not sure why. “Ross,” he manages, reaching out wildly, “let me go home now, please. I’m so tired, I’m so – “

It’s John who sighs, briskly plumps Tony’s pillow and forces him back against it, _hard._ It hurts. Tony cries out, snaps his teeth. “It’s just the meds, Sir,” John says easily. “You’re probably not going to get much sense out of him for a few more days at least. Maybe try in the morning, the painkiller will have worn off by then.”

“Of course,” Ross says hurriedly, probably looking for an excuse to leave. “Well, I hope he – “ Ross rearranges, crouches slightly so he can meet Tony’s eyes, “I hope _you_ get better soon,” he says, like he’s talking to a five year old. Tony can only glare balefully, because John has attached the brace back around his neck.

Ross ruffles his hair – _I’m am NOT a child –_ and head on down through the hatch in the floor. John tries to pull the covers up to Tony’s chin and Tony snaps at him, cheeks still wet, still sniffing occasionally.

“You can’t do that,” John says quietly. “You can’t play up like that. Not when he’s trying to be kind.”

“I hate him,” Tony replies. His throat is so thick, his words come out like chipped wood, damp with rain. “I hate him, he’s ruined me. He has ruined everything for me.”

“What you did? At the gala? Choosing him instead of Rogers? He’s mad for you, Stark. You can’t – throw that away, crying like this. You can’t go away again, you can’t have another break down. He won’t stand for it a second time.”

“I don’t care, I don’t _care_ anymore, don’t you get it? Steve’s back. I can go and marry Steve, and if Steve marries Bucky I’ll just ask to be their omega, and it doesn’t matter I don’t even care if I’m not – not a first choice, I just want – I want to go home, I’m sick of being here, I hate _him,”_ Tony rasps, _spitting_ the word, “Steve said I could go with him, he _asked_ me to go – “ he laughs, hysterical, “I should have gone! Why didn’t I go? He would have killed Ross and it wouldn’t even matter any – “

John slaps him. It’s not that hard, but it jars him, and it _hurts_ his neck. Tony lies there, blinking up at the ceiling, briefly stunned.

“You can’t talk like that,” John says flatly. “You cannot say those things. If he hears you, he will have you sent away, and you will never see Steve again. You need to get yourself together before your neck heals, or you won’t be able to blame it on the meds. Stop it.”

“I don’t care!” Tony exclaims wildly. “He can do what he likes to me! I don’t care anymore! He already – takes my body, it’s not mine anymore anyway. I’ll do anything to get away, nothing could be worse than this – “

“There’s a lot that’s worse than this. Being sent away would be worse than this,” John says, darkly. “Trust me. You have an alpha who dotes on you. If you play your cards right, he’ll let you get away with murder. Just give him a few kids, forget Steve, and move on with your life. Stop crying. I mean it, Tony. Stop crying.”

“I can’t,” Tony sobs, and he’s crying again, he can’t get a hold of himself at all and it’s embarrassing, he hasn’t cried like this in _years,_ “fuck, I’m so – “

John has bundled something and thrown it at his head. Scent hits him, thick and – soft. Fresh sheets and mown grass, strawberry and vanilla. _Steve._ His shirt, the one he stole from HQ months ago, his scent still clinging to the weave.

Tony laughs happily into its folds, the scent momentarily making him high. “He – “ Tony says, “he was the first person to ever ask me how I felt.”

“I don’t care,” John says shortly. “Go to sleep. Be better in the morning, or he won’t be pleased.”

And then he leaves, slamming the hatch down behind him. Tony doesn’t really remember it in the morning; just hazy memories, and the slam of a door.

 

Ross is sitting on the chair in the corner of his room, smoking, shirt rolled up his arms, legs spread.

Tony doesn’t know how long he’s been watching him sleep. He opens his eyes, shuts them again. The light in his attic room is dull, like it’s not even morning – could he have slept through a whole day? Achingly, he starts to pull himself up, prepares his words.

“Ro – Thad,” he begins, still covered in sleep, voice rough and croaky. “About what happened – I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know they would try to – obviously I didn’t know. And – I can’t control Steve, you know that don’t you? I can’t control what he does. I didn’t want him there I swear, it wasn’t even – “ Placate, submit, tip back your head and crawl, Tony, do what it takes, do what it takes –

Ross frowns, settling himself at the foot of Tony’s bed. “I’m not angry with you,” he says, not turning to look at Tony. “Why would you think I was angry?”

Words die in Tony’s throat. He doesn’t know. Because Ross has never been kind to him, exactly. Because he was so angry at the gala. Tony doesn’t want to – he doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to remember.

“Because… of Steve. And what happened.”

Tony sees Ross shake his head. “No,” he says quietly, “no, that’s not your fault. Actually, I – I came here, because – well, I suppose I wanted to see how you were.”

Tony blinks. “How I am?” He repeats.

“Right. I mean… are you comfortable? Do you have everything you need? I – “ Ross clears his throat loudly, still doesn’t turn to look at him. “I know that was… I suppose it was difficult. Traumatic, even, to be treated like that. To have people touch you like that. So I wanted to ask – if you were okay.”

A beat. “I’m fine, Thad.”

“Are you sure? Because – I’m not old-fashioned, Tony. I’ve worked with vets, and omegas especially… if you want to increase your dose, or – or talk to someone. I think – I heard that talking to other omegas is very beneficial, I could look into that for you, if it’s what you want. Is that what you want?”

Tony is winding his fingers around his blanket and he hadn’t even realised. It’s not a blanket, actually – it’s Natasha’s cloak. He must have slept with it, and it still smells like her, still has her scent clung to it’s weave. He places it aside and scoots forward slightly. Ross doesn’t like outward displays of affection, Tony has learnt. He prefers to think he’s in charge. So Tony just rests a hand on his shoulder, still an arm’s length away, and says “I don’t need anything more, alpha.”

It does the trick. Ross jump up like he’s been struck by lightning, clears his throat and brushes down his suit. “Fine,” he says shortly. “That’s – very well. In that case, there’s nothing more I need today. Dinner at the usual time, please.”

“Do you want me to press your shirts?”

“John will handle it. You’ve – that’s very good, Tony. You’re very good.”

“Thanks. I try to be.”

Ross does an awkward finger gun motion. “Right. You do. You – “ he laughs uneasily, “you tell me if you need anything now, alright?”

“Alright.”

Ross nods. “Good. Okay. Good stuff.”

 

Ross enters, later that night, holding a bouquet of roses and a bottle of champagne, hair damp with rain. He places both proudly on the table and then sweeps Tony into a gut-wrenching kiss, awkward, wet, too hard, teeth and tongue, Tony almost – almost – pulling away and pushing him back, before he realises he can’t do that. It’s disgustingly intimate, and Tony had maybe thought he could get away with not having to do this forever, that Ross would be able to go without – this kind of contact indefinitely. Tactfully, he breaks up the kiss, avoids Ross’s eyes and shit-eating grin and hopes it seems bashful, maybe demure. “Wow,” he says, turning to the sink and surreptitiously wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “you’re in a good mood.”

“Not really,” Ross says easily, helping himself to a beer. “But I resigned, today. I have a few days grace before they release a statement. I thought – why get mopey about it? It falls where it falls. Can’t change that now.”

Ah, fuck.

“That’s – oh. Okay.” Of course, he didn’t mention it to Tony, why would he? “I would have made something special if I’d known.”

“I’m sure whatever you’ve cooked up will be a treat.”

He means it, too. At some point, Ross has gone from purposefully antagonising, to tolerating, to _doting_ on Tony. It’s disturbing. Tony wants to go back to comfortably keeping a distance.

“How are you feeling?” Ross asks. “You’re not too stiff, are you?”

“I’m fine.” His face is achy, his nose swollen, his eyes painted deep purple, but other than that – yeah, sure, he’s definitely had worse.

“Good. _Good._ And – there’s been no sign of – “ Ross sits at the table, plays with the head of a rose. “I mean, they were so rough with you. If you had been carrying – “

“I think the statistic is something like – I don’t know. But most miscarriages happen before the carrier is even aware they had a baby, so. If I did, I don’t know.” He definitely didn’t. There’s no way he was pregnant.

“No, no, of course,” Ross says hastily. “Well, there’s always next month.”

“Definitely next month,” Tony agrees, turning down the gas on the oven. “I look forward to it.”

“Do you really?” Ross asks, casually. He glances at him. Even Tony can’t quite bring himself to back up the lie.

“Dinner,” he says instead, plating out two steaks, one big, one small, because Tony never has an appetite these days. He ladles out green things, because Ross is on a health kick, garnishes with a nice garlic sauce and mushrooms. “Shall I take it to the study?”

“Study? No, no. I’m eating here tonight. You should get used to it,” Ross smiles, quick as a flash. “I’m going to be in your hair a lot more from here on out.”

Great. Fantastic. Just what Tony needs. “You’ll need a hobby.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

Tony lays his food down in front of him. “Anything else?” He asks. “Another beer?”

Ross pats his gut and refuses. Tony sits opposite. For a while, it’s just silence.

Then Ross says, “You know, you really are a great cook.”

“Thanks.”

“This is – divine.”

“I – thank you,” Tony manages, again. “It’s easy, really.”

“And remind me – your mother taught you how to cook like this?”

“She did.”

“And your father taught you everything else,” Ross remembers.

“Yeah,” Tony replies. “He did that, too.”

“It must have been good, having parents who were so – enlightened. Not many parents of our standing would let their only omega tinker with cars.”

It was more than cars, but okay. “Didn’t stop them marrying me at 17,” Tony says, losing his appetite.

“I’m sure they only had your best interests at heart.”

“Probably. Do you want some wine? I’m going to get some wine.”

Ross just waits, though. Doesn’t say anything till Tony sits back down. “My last wife,” he says, cutting his steak into neat lines. “We were married young.”

“Unusual,” Tony comments, disinterested. “I mean – that you married, young. Not many alphas do.”

“It was a love match.”

“Then you’re lucky.”

“Luckier than you.”

“Yes, Thadd,” Tony says tiredly. “Luckier than me.”

“I got an email from one of your board members the other day.”

Tony perks up. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Stane’s son – what’s his name?”

“Zeke.”

“Yeah, him. He’s finished school. He wants his inheritance.”

“He doesn’t have one,” Tony snaps, sudden. “The – the little bastard doesn’t have one. I’ve fed him, I’ve clothed him, I’ve – paid for an excellent education, I don’t owe him anything else.”

Ross nods, slowly. “Well,” he says, picking some meat out of his tooth, “they did warn me you’d be like this.”

“Be like what?”

“Antagonistic.”

“What do you want me to say?” Tony can’t believe he still needs to have this conversation, 18 years on. “He doesn’t _deserve_ anything else. How much more should I be expected – “

“Jesus, Tony, he’s a kid.”

“He’s a man, now. He’s not my business and – actually, he’s not _yours,_ either, so I don’t know why you feel the need to bring this – “

“As the executor of your estate, he suddenly is my business. I’m going to pay him, keep him off our tail. A lump sum should be enough, $10 million should do it.”

Tony’s eyes bulge in his head. “$10 million? Ten fucking million dollars? Give it to a charity, stick it up my ass, I don’t care what you do with it, just don’t give it to _him – “_

“Ah yes,” Ross says dryly, “he committed that awful crime of being born.”

Being born to another omega who wasn’t Tony. A fucking floozy, if Tony remembers correctly, who overdosed on meth a few years after the sprog was born. Obie had tried to adopt him and – so what, Tony had put his foot down, said under no circumstances was he going to raise a _bastard,_ how humiliating, does Obie want him to kill himself because he’ll kill himself, and back then Obie still cared enough to sometimes listen to what Tony wanted (although he did get a black eye for his trouble). So yeah, the crime of being born is a pretty terrible crime in his books. By all the laws, in the all the states, Obie – and by proxy, Tony – owes an illegitimate child _nothing,_ and Zeke is no shrinking violet, he will take and take and take until –

“It’s my money,” Tony says hotly. “You can’t – “

“Tony, I can. And it’s all money you inherited from Stane, I’ll make sure of that. Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be liberal? You and Warren would probably see eye to eye on this.”

Low blow, fuckwit. They don’t understand, they never understand. Steve couldn’t either, always tactfully avoided the topic because he knew he’d never change Tony’s mind. No alpha could ever understand the utter _humiliation_ of losing three children and then having your alpha pop one with a prostitute from Florida, no problem. An alpha male, at that. Tony doesn’t doubt if it had been anything else, Obie never would have bothered at all, but an alpha _male –_ now, that’s an achievement, better than any of the crippled children Tony could produce.

“I shouldn’t have even told you,” Ross sighs wearily. “I thought I should just let you know. I see now it would have been better to have just paid the money and let the problem go away.”

“The problem _won’t_ just go away,” Tony snaps, “it’s _Obie’s_ son, he’s fucking shrewd. And – dead behind the eyes. There’s something wrong with him, I’ve always thought, and I don’t want to have him hanging on – “

“Well ultimately it’s not your choice,” Ross bulldozes. “I’m changing the conversation now. Talk about something else.”

Tony was going to save it for a more tactful moment, but Ross has got him riled up, spitting. “Your _friend,”_ he taunts, “the great congressman, Mr Warren. He tried to have me raped at the gala, you know.”

Ross doesn’t react, doesn’t even flinch. He continues to slowly chew. Swallow. Take a long drink. “I see.”

“I see?” Tony mocks. “That’s all you can say, _I see?_ What kind of alpha are you? He sent three men to – _rape me._ Actually rape me, they had me on the floor, legs spread, they would have managed it if I didn’t cause a commotion. They burnt my neck,” Tony says indignantly, “they almost broke my nose, how can you – “

“Warren is running.”

“I’m sorry? Running where?”

Ross laughs, like Tony couldn’t possibly understand what he means. “He’s running. To be president. Against Ellis.”

Tony blinks. “That’s – what? He’s not going to – why would he run against his own president – “

“Because he thinks he can win. In fact, he knows he can win. He’ll beat Ellis for the candidacy.”

“That’s… never happened before.”

“It’s going to happen now. And if – _when --_ he wins the candidacy, in a year’s time, we could have President Warren.”

“Then – this is perfect. It’s perfect,” Tony laughs, “tell them what he did. Tell them he tried to have me – “

“That would look brilliant, wouldn’t it? A former champion for omega’s lib making up a story about being attacked by Warren’s men, with zero proof, and zero evidence.”

“Are you mad? Look at my face! I still stink like them! Those men are probably on payroll somewhere, look them up, and there must be camera footage – “

“Those men are dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

“Did you – “

“Me? No. Rogers got to them, during the scuffle. Didn’t you notice the bodies?”

“I must have – I wasn’t myself,” Tony snaps. “That’s not the point. I was witness, you were witness, Steve was witness, Natasha, Barnes – there were plenty of witnesses.”

“I’m not sure that will strengthen your case.”

Tony’s mouth drops open. He shouldn’t be surprised, why would he be surprised? It would probably be embarrassing for Ross to have to deal with the media show, the smears, the fact that it makes him look like an impotent fool. But fucking hell, even _Obie_ had words with Tiberius Stone after he lay hands on Tony at his twenty-first.

“That’s pathetic, did you know that?”

Ross continues to chew like he didn’t hear. “I was thinking,” he says, “you’re so lonely here, all on your own. It’s your birthday next week, isn’t it? And it only seems right that we – _thank_ Rogers for what he did the other night. Credit where credit’s due, if I hadn’t been there – well. He did me a favour.”

He did _you_ a favour? Ah, of course, it would have been _such_ a burden for _Ross_ if Tony had actually been raped. Could you imagine? He might feel bad about fucking him. He might have to pause before he rams into him. Hey, it would probably make him scent like another alpha, and Ross would _hate_ that. God, it would be so damn hard for him, wouldn’t it?

Tony rams his fork into a pile of green vegetables. “He did _you_ such a huge favour,” he spits, “sparing me. God, _you’re_ so lucky he appeared, I just dread to think what it would have been like for _you_ if I had been raped.”

Ross sets his mouth in a line. “I bought you flowers. And champagne. And I’m inviting your friends for dinner. _I’m trying to be nice._ Do you need to take that tone with me?”

Assuaging a guilty conscience, more like. “Take what tone?” Tony asks, passive aggressive. A month ago, two months ago, he wouldn’t have dared speak like this, but their relationship has changed. Ross offers nothing, he holds nothing, no power, no influence. They’re both aware of it. “We’re just having a conversation.”

Ross throws up his hands. “Fine,” he snaps, “fine. I won’t give Stane’s kid the money, how about that? You win. We’ll just let the kid fend for himself and then make a highly publicised legal claim against us in a few years time, yeah? If that’s what you want, what you really, truly want – “

“That’s what I want.”

“Omegas,” Ross growls. “You’re so irrational.”

“I don’t have to entertain children from – illicit liaisons, done outside of my marriage, and then flaunted in front of me as proof of _my_ unbelievable inadequacy.”

“What about my daughter?”

Tony looks up. “Your daughter is the product of a loving, legal, relationship. If she wants an inheritance, I can’t stop you from giving her my money. But as it stands, she’s older than me. I really wouldn’t need to be doing any parenting.”

Ross glares. “Be careful, Tony.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

Stalemate. Ross sucks in a breath, and for a terrifying half-second, Tony thinks he’s going to stand, march over, and slam his head against the table. But he just exhales, takes another bite of steak.

“I don’t blame you for – being jaggy. It was rough what happened at the gala. It’s your birthday, and you deserve a good time. Who else should I invite?”

“No one.” Tony is overly cautious; he doesn’t know what’s sparked this sudden outpouring of generosity on Ross’s part. “Whoever you want.”

“Rogers, then. Romanoff, I know you’re close. I want to invite Barnes.”

Tony feels sickness roiling in his belly. How much more of this can he take? “Not Barnes,” he protests, weakly. “I can’t – sit across the table and watch them – “

“It really shouldn’t matter to you, since your loyalty lies with me.”

A test. Tony should have realised. This is a test, isn’t it? Tony passed, at the gala, he went home with Ross. But now he wants to push it, see how far Tony will go.

“No,” Tony agrees, “I just meant – watching them moon over each other. It’s disgusting. Way too – PDA,” he lies.

Ross chuckles in agreement. “You’re right. I just though – eh, you know, it might be a good time to consolidate. Seeing at I’m retired, and you’re – sorted, there’s no reason for bad blood.”

A bolt, like lightning – and trust him, he _knows_ what being struck by lightning feels like – hits him hard. Tony is Ross’s card. He’s his _card._ The Avengers are back, they’re in Ellis’s favour, and Tony is his in, the only route he has back to influence. Fuck, _that’s_ why he’s being so nice. Suddenly, he needs Tony. He needs him.

“I’m sure – not sure how Steve would take to this,” Tony says carefully. “He can be headstrong. He won’t take well to be asked – “

“Which is why you’ll call him,” Ross says, like it’s that simple. “I had John buy you a new phone, I feel you’ve earned it. The numbers you need are pre-loaded, just – give him a bell sometime tomorrow, when you have time.”

All Tony has is time. “What, me? Are you sure – John would be better, wouldn’t he. Wouldn’t he?”

"Nonsense. They're your friends, aren't they?"

A test. It's all Tony can think. A test to see what he does when given half a second alone with Steve. Ross, no doubt, will listen to his phone call on repeat, trying to discern any hidden meaning in his words. "That's -- okay. I'll do that, if that's what you want." He's exhausted, suddenly. Playing mental chess with Ross just leaves him -- drained.

"Good boy," Ross says warmly, turning back to his food. "You can be such a good boy when you want to be."

 

Tony is sitting on the stairs, phone in hand. It’s a test, he knows. The phone is new, a gift from Ross, technically free from any limitations short of the fact Tony would bet money on it being traced and recorded. Ross will want to know how this conversation plays out. He’ll want to hear every second.

His hands are sweaty. He wipes them down on his pants, puts in the number Ross has given him. It rings out, first time, because Steve doesn’t answer unknown numbers first time. It used to drive Tony crazy; just answer the damn phone! No one who has the number is trying to scam you, and it could be important! So Tony rings back without even waiting to listen for an answer.

“Hello?” Is Steve’s voice, warm, cautious. “Hello?”

Tony’s words have dried in his throat. His mouth is open, the words in his head, but he can’t get his mouth to speak them. “Hello?” Steve asks again, and his voice has taken on that confused, impatient tone that people do when the line is dead. “Is someone there? I can hear breathing.”

“Steve,” Tony manages. “Rogers. Hello. It’s – Of Ross, calling. Tony of Ross.”

“Tony?”

“Yes. Of Ross. I wanted to call to – “ what did he want to call for? What was it? He can’t remember. “I wanted to call to – invite you, to a dinner. You, and Natasha, and – “ Tony’s mouth stutters the name, “B-Barnes. My alpha would be happy to receive you – “

“Tony – wait, hold on, just stay on the line, let me – “

“ – next week Wednesday at 8PM for my birthday,” Tony says, desperately, rushing. “Plus ones are not advised, and – “

“You can talk to me,” Steve pleads, “is he watching you, now? Is he watching this conversation? Say – say our word if he’s watching – “

“ – and please be prompt,” Tony finishes.

“Tony.”

“Rogers.”

Steve huffs down the line, something rough, and edgy. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Thank you,” Tony manages, as evenly as he can. “I’m grateful that – you stepped aside and let common sense bring you back home. For the greater good.”

“Greater good? Tony, I didn’t come back for – “

Someone is ringing the doorbell. Tony frowns, two shadowy shapes blurring the frosted glass. “What was that?” He asks, distracted.

“I didn’t come home because Ellis asked me to, I came home because I wanted – “

“I’m sorry,” Tony interrupts. “There’s someone at the door. I – I’ll see you next week, Mr – Steve.”

“Tony!”

“Of Ross,” Tony snaps, against his judgement, because he can’t have Steve pushing himself forward like this. “I’m Of Ross to you, understand?”

“Jesus, what has he – “

“I’ll have my steward send through the details,” Tony manages, quickly. “And – and it will be good to see you all,” he lies. “Thank you, bye.”

“Wait!” Steve shouts down the line, “Wait, hold on just a – “

Tony only has two seconds to breathe after he puts down the phone, because the door just _keeps ringing,_ fucking hell. “I’m coming,” Tony grouches, flattening his hair to his head, checking his breath; it stinks, but what can you do? Salesmen, probably, although John should know better than to let them past the gate, he does sometimes if they bribe him enough.

Tony opens the door, and –

Fuck.

It’s Nicholas and wolf-bitch. Warren’s omegas. She’s holding a cake, smile fixed on her face, veil pushed back on her head, wearing an absurdly high-necked sweated that almost covers her chin – very traditional, the freak. “Of Ross,” she smiles placidly. “We heard what happened at the gala. Such a bad business. We hope we’re not intruding – you know, in these times, it’s the company of other omegas that helps us most.”

“Other than our alphas,” Nick adds, dozily, hand curling across his belly.

“That’s right,” wolf-bitch nods. “Very good, Nicholas.”

“It’s chocolate,” Nick says. “It’s so tasty.”

“Cut the crap,” Tony says bluntly. “I know what he did, you know what he did.” Tony glances at Nick briefly. There’s a very real chance Nick doesn’t know that Warren tried to have Tony assaulted. “I bet that cake’s poisoned, huh?”

“Of Ross, I have no idea what you’re referring too,” wolf-bitch says, face forming a concerned look. “But if we could all sit down and discuss our problems, I’m sure it would help.”

“We should… pray?” Nick suggests.

“That’s right. We should pray.”

“Fucking hell. Leave. Get out. You’re not welcome.”

Tony tries to shut the door, Warren’s bitch sticks her foot in the entry-way, shoves one shoulder past the frame. “Of Ross,” she smiles, acidly, “I really must insist. I went to all that effort to bake you a cake. And we’ve already sent the driver away – you wouldn’t leave a pregnant O standing outside your door, would you?”

No, Tony wouldn’t. But only because he knows Bitch would tell every other omega on the globe that Tony was a nasty, bitchy breed traitor with terrible manners. He glares, briefly, then slides open the door. “Come in,” he says, begrudgingly.

“Wonderful. To the kitchen? I don’t know about you, but I want a slice of this cake.”

She leads the way, and Tony just has to follow, because she’s _old,_ and past her breeding years, and omegas are so stupidly hierarchical, it’s claustrophobic and antiquated, and it makes Tony yearn for New York or Malibu, where no one ever bothers with the traditions anymore.

“Now,” Bitch sighs, placing the cake on the island and helping herself to some plates. “I forgot how lovely this kitchen is. You really do run a tight ship, Of Ross.”

“Thank you.”

Bitch hums happily, making herself at home. “Would you like some cake? I’ll certainly be having some. Nick? I know how much you love cake.”

“I do,” Nick nods, uncomfortably close to Tony’s face, eyes wide and blank. “I love cake so much.”

“That’s – nice,” Tony says awkwardly, taking a step back. Nick doesn’t get the memo, and he steps closer again, invading Tony’s space in a way that makes him want to snap his teeth – _he’s_ the head bitch round here, not Nick.

Nick inhales deeply. “Mmm. You smell good Tony. Like…” he trails off. It’s a lie, Tony thinks. He knows he smells like death warmed over.

“Nick,” Bitch says, voice reproachful. “Be polite. Sit, both of you, let me serve this up.”

“I don’t want cake,” Tony says shortly.

“Yes you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

Bitch smiles freakishly wide. “Well then,” she says, “I’ll serve some up, leave it on a plate, and you can get to it when you like, how about that?”

“You can do what you like. I won’t eat it, though.”

Bitch slams the platter back down onto the island. “Now,” she says, “what’s this I hear about you telling tales?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“My alpha heard through the grapevine about a little rumour. That the awful attack at the gala was somehow… his doing.” Bitch smiles, carefully. “But of course, that wouldn’t be true, would it? Who do you think could have even started such a thing?”

“Oh! I see. Yeah, no, I mean, it was him,” Tony says, casually. “You know it, I know it. As a note for the future, if you have presidential ambitions, don’t try and rape a guy at a public event? I don’t know,” Tony shrugs, “that’s just a thought. Then again, I’m not an expert, so.”

“Of Ross,” wolf-bitch says sadly, “you really must stop with this… story. Your penchant for tales is well-known, you know. As if your…” she sighs heavily, “well, as if your erratic behaviour.”

“There are witnesses. There are people who would testify – “

“I was speaking to – who was it, Nicholas. Was it young Chrissy Hansen?”

“Mmm hmm,” Nick hums, inbetween bites of cake.

“Chrissy Hansen,” wolf-bitch smiles. “Lovely girl. She’s expecting again, you know. It’ll be her fourth. Her second though – a beautiful baby boy. All grown up now.”

Tony pauses. “I had just lost a child,” he says, quietly. “No one ever – “

“I’ve lost children,” wolf-bitch says smugly. “The good lord has taken two of mine. I never attempted to – what was it, _steal_ another omega’s baby – “

“I didn’t – “ the whole exchange had been blown out of proportion. Tony had been on meds for the pain, Obie had insisted they visit the baby shower to save face. Chrissy and Tony had been pregnant together, had almost identical due dates, and then Tony’s had been born dead and Chrissy had the baby that, by every right, should have been his. It wasn’t fair, she gets _four_ children and Tony doesn’t even get one, and Chrissy’s alphas just _doted_ on her, adored her, and she’d already had one child so why –

He shouldn’t have even _been_ there, but Obie was such a fucking fool. It was a slip up, just briefly. When their backs were turned, he – maybe he tried to slip out with the baby. He _wasn’t_ stealing it, he just wanted some alone time, to know what it felt like to have one. Obviously he wasn’t going to _keep_ it, he just wanted – to nurse him, maybe, just hold him a little while longer. His baby had only been dead two weeks gone. He had wanted to feel the soft snuffle against his chest, fluffy hair against his chin, little fingers and little toes, pressing his nose into the cradle of it’s scalp and scenting that lovely fresh baby scent.

He got lucky. It was Rhodes who found him, back then trying to woo Chrissy’s sister. He was the one who carefully pried the baby from Tony’s arms, handed it back to a frantic mother. None of them – not Rhodes, not a single omega, not even Chrissy herself -- ever breathed a word about it, even though Tony was never really welcomed back again. It’s a certain pain that omegas share, that maybe only they can understand. That, and they all knew what Obie would do to him if he found out. They’d already seen the bruises from the hospital. It was an open secret.

He wonders if Bitch plied Chrissy with the same routine, foot in the door, cake, the works.

“And then,” the bitch continues, “I hear you’ve been on medication. Apparently, you didn’t take to married life as well as you’ve been saying. No judgement, of course, I think we’d all rather you sought the help you needed, but there are just so many incidences of… how should I say this? Poor cognitive strength.”

“This won’t work.”

Bitch takes a delicate bite of cake. “Delicious,” she says. “And I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Again, the incident over dinner a few months ago – saying to my alpha what you said? Shocking. Especially after he’d gone out of his way to be so kind to you, it did leave us wondering if you were quite – stable.”

“And you’re a qualified psychiatrist, are you?”

“Of course not,” Bitch laughs. “Just a concerned friend. There are places that could help, you know. Spas. Nicholas was there for a few weeks, weren’t you Nicholas? Why don’t you tell Of Ross all about it, and how much it helped you.”

She’s smiling placidly over Nick’s head, eyes boring into Tony’s, because Nick is all the proof Tony needs. _If you don’t play our game, we’ll turn you into a vegetable._ “It’s alright, Nick,” Tony dismisses. “I’ve got the idea.”

“We only want what’s best for you,” bitch continues. “If you persist with this story…” she sighs, heavily. “Something really would have to be done. Stronger medication, maybe, something that tampers your urges. Or the spa would take good care of you. Really, it’s up to you. I’m sure your alpha only wants the best for you.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Bitch’s smile is sickly sweet. “You should focus on yourself and your home,” she says, piously. “You need to prepare for children, Of Ross. I hear it’s your birthday next week – how old will you be?”

“Thirty-seven,” Tony manages, reluctantly.

“Still plenty of time, God willing.” She raps her knuckles against the table. “I had my last at fifty-two. That’s two years later then average! But then, God blesses his chosen I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

“You should come to some of our meetings,” Bitch says, cheerfully. “Nicholas, tell Of Ross how nice they are.”

“We get cake,” Nick says, dreamily. “And sometimes coffee, on special occasions.”

Have they fucking lobotomised him? Drugged him? What the hell is going on? “Sounds wild.”

“We always love to welcome someone new into the fold. And you would be such an example to the others.” Bitch takes a delicate bite of cake. “Nicholas mentioned he saw you talking to Edward of Sokolov. The boy is a known deviant, as I’m sure you are aware. Really, you should be more careful with who you’re seen with.”

“I’m not aware. Edward has always been very good to his alpha.”

“Hmm. His new one isn’t sure. You know, she married into the family on the back of a merger? From what she’s told Warren, Edward goes out his way to be particularly difficult. And – “ Bitch lowers her voice, “she found him _touching himself_ to pictures. Of other _omegas.”_

Edward, you fucking idiot, couldn’t you have just kept it in your pants? “That’s – shocking,” Tony says, reluctantly, hating himself. “I never would have thought.”

“I’m sure. Anyway, they’re sending him away for a while. The lovely facility down in Arizona – looks like it will be long-stay. Maybe if – of course this won’t happen, because I can see you’re perfectly fine – but if you continued telling stories and whatnot, maybe you could be with him? It might help you to have a familiar face.”

“I get it.”

“What was that?” Bitch asks sweetly. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

“I said I get it. I understand. I won’t – tell stories, anymore.”

Bitch’s smile is bright. “Well then,” she says happily. “Isn’t that nice? You see? Talking to omegas really does help.” Just like that, she’s standing to leave, tugging Nick along with her. “Go to the car,” she says, “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

Nick smiles happily. “It was good seeing you again Tony. I hope…” Nick trails off, distracted.

“Nicholas?” Bitch prompts.

“I hope you’ll – you’ll join us soon. It’s really good to see you, always. You’re always very kind to me.”

“It’s no problem, Nick,” Tony says softly. “I’ll see you around. And – good luck. With the baby.” Nick smiles again and practically skips down the driveway. “What have you done to him?” Tony asks, not confrontational, just genuinely curious. “Is it drugs?”

Bitch’s smile drops. “He’s just content,” she says, flatly. “You should try it some time.”

“Hard to be content when a presidential hopeful sends men to assault you.”

“Oh please,” Bitch spits, “get over it. Were you raped? No. Omegas have suffered worse for less.”

“Less? Less than telling your alpha to shut up over a dinner table because he called me – what was it? ‘Diseased mind’, and told me that the Good Lord had ‘conveyed sterility into my womb’, fucking hell.”

“You do have a diseased mind, Of Ross.”

“Well we can’t all be as moral as your alpha. I did the maths, by the way, anyone with half a brain could figure it out – he married Nick two months ago, and by the looks of it, he’s about five months gone.”

Bitch’s face goes a spectacular shade of red. “God doesn’t judge us by our indiscretions. As long as we repent, and make good on our sins, he forgives. What my – “

“Right,” Tony smiles, “because I remember now – Nick used to be a real night owl, didn’t he? You know – ‘impure things’. So what happened, was Warren buying his body or did Nick just tempt him with his unholy ass? It’s alright,” Tony simpers, “we omegas can talk about these things.”

“You’re no better,” Bitch hisses. “I know all about Stane’s bastard – you like to play hero, pretend you’re so _humanistic,_ but that didn’t stop you from shipping him off and leaving him to rot in some school – “

“Oh like you would have done differently.”

“I accepted Nicholas! By God’s grace, now we’re married, and he’s giving me one more healthy child. Which is more than _you,”_ she spits, “have ever managed. How many was it, four – “

“Three.”

“Three dead children, and you _still_ think you’re somehow superior. If that was me – hah,” Bitch sneers. “I would be on my knees thanking God every night that I still had an alpha at all.”

“Trust me, lady, if all it took to get Ross off my back was three dead babies I’d be juicing as many as I could.”

Bitch’s eyes go shocked, then furious. It was a pretty crude thing to say, Tony knows, because he holds a very, very, curled up deep in the centre of his chest, special place for those three babies. But it’s also worth it to see Bitch deal with the seven stages of grief in about a second. “You’ll answer for that,” she spits – actually spits, at Tony’s feet. “You’re unwell. Never in my life have I witnessed such perversion.”

“Maybe you should,” Tony says, piously. “It might be good for you to unwind a little bit. Perversion’s where it’s at, you crusty old bitch.”

“I’ll pray for you.”

“Do whatever the fuck you like,” Tony says lazily, “it’s a free country.”

 

Tony is ready to rip Ross a new asshole when he gets home.

“And they just – turned up! At my door! And told me I was a delusional bitch, that I was imagining things! Can you fucking believe it? Do you, Ross? Do you fucking believe that?”

“I always thought you would be the type to avoid cat fights.”

“Cat fights?! _Cat fights?!_ She threatened to have me locked up! She called me mentally abnormal! It wasn’t a cat fight, it was – it’s guerrilla warfare! She’ll do whatever she can to protect Warren’s claim – “

“Tony.”

“And I’m not going to let her, no way. She’s a shrivelled up cunt anyway, I don’t care how many children she has, and I can’t believe I’m just expected to roll over belly up any time she decides to – “

“Tony.”

“Walk into my house! I’m telling you Thadd, I am _fuming_ about this. It would be nice if I had some support, you know? Everyone else has an alpha to back them up, and then there’s me, all on my lonesome, against some psycho – “

“Are you not going to ask me how my day was?”

Tony halts, blinks. Of course. “Sorry,” he apologises, swallowing his retort. “How was your day, _honey?”_

“It was good. Do you want to know what I did?”

Tony frowns. That’s unusual. “I – yeah, actually.”

“Good. After dinner, we’re going for a drive.”

Maybe, because it’s been brought up so much, Tony is automatically convinced that Ross is sending him away. Or that it’s some kind of elaborate practical joke where he leaves Tony in the middle of nowhere and drives off and tells him he needs to find his own way back because Tony told him they were going the wrong way and they were going to miss the wedding reception and he was right but Obie didn’t listen and so Tony had to flag down a stranger on the side of the road and when he got home Obie was already there because turns out they _had_ been going the wrong way –

Ross is humming, cheery, and Tony realises it’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together in a car. “Can I change the music?” He asks.

“Depends. What kind of music.”

Tony settles on an eighties channel and Ross, although his nose wrinkles, deals with it. It’s about twenty minutes, and then they’re pulling up at a – warehouse? Farm? It’s hard to tell in the gloom.

“This way,” Ross instructs, holding open the door for Tony. “Watch your step, it’s rocky.”

 _He’s probably going to murder me,_ Tony thinks. _Well, this is it. I had a good run._

“Now,” Ross is saying, helping Tony over the doorway in the gloom. “It’s not perfect. I had to go off the plans from your old HQ, but obviously it’s nowhere near as modern. Still, I had most of the important things brought over – where’s the light? – and of course, the most important thing of all – “

Ross’s hand flaps against the wall, hits something, and slowly the lights switch on, buzzing into life.

Old factory is Tony’s guess. The conveyors have been moved out, and workbenches moved in. DUM-E. DUM-E?  Why is –

His suit, held up by cable, next to a bench holding his tools.

“I don’t understand,” Tony frowns, “why did you move – what?”

“For you,” Ross says casually, like this was always his plan. He takes a folded paper out of his jacket and holds it out. “Ta-da.”

Tony’s mouth dry, his palms sweaty. “What is that?” He asks, already knowing.

“Your license. I thought you’d be happier, considering this is sort the reason you married me in the first place.” Ross smiles benevolently. “Go on, open it up. Signed and everything. Congratulations.”

Tony’s knees feel – weak. “Oh thank God,” he breathes, “I thought – _God,_ if I had to go a second longer I was gonna – “ he looks up, a giggle escaping. “I was gonna go crazy, you know? If I couldn’t _do_ something, I was gonna lose my mind. But this is, this is – thank you,” he blurts, “thank you, _thank you.”_

“It’s nothing,” Ross says, because for him, it isn’t. “Seriously, it’s your birthday, I thought, ‘what the hell, let me do something – “

Tony takes Ross’s arms, shakes him a little. “Thank you,” he says again, urgently. “Thank you, you have no idea what this means to me.”

Ross looks – what is that? Irritated? Or maybe surprised, angry – it’s so hard to tell. Tony is giving off some major _happyhappythankyouhappy!_ vibes, so it doesn’t stay that way for long. Ross has to grin, because his body makes him. “Wow,” he says, “I didn’t know you could smile.”

Tony laughs, spins, and in a fit of – something, stands on his toes and gives Ross a hug, squeezes him tight. “Thank you,” he chatters again, “thank you so much, thank you, I knew I could – prove it, I knew I could do it. This is all worth it. It’s worth it for this, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

Ross frowns, confused but still smiling. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

It’s worth it, almost. It removes some of the sting. Tony married Ross for Steve even though Steve didn’t need him to. The only thing Ross had left to offer Tony was this license, and he’s come through. He’s delivered. It’s _worth_ it.

“Oh,” Tony sighs, rapturous. “Look at it, it’s just like I left it. I’ve had so many ideas – I didn’t want to, didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I couldn’t help it. And I can fly? You’ll let me fly?”

“I mean – you can’t just disappear into the night. But… if there’s an occasion where your services are needed, or when your… _team_ is required, you have my blessing to help. I always said we needed you.”

Tony trails his fingers along the workbenches. They’re his, taken straight from his garage back hom – at HQ. He tests the grip on one of his welders; perfect. Of course, there’s nothing here for mass production, but it will be enough maintain and build on using the mark 147 as a skeleton. “It’s perfect,” Tony says, stupidly wistful. He’s allowed to be wistful, he’s had a shit nine months.

“One more thing,” Ross says, casually. “You’ll need to install a failsafe. Just in case. I mean, just in case someone takes control of your armour, obviously.”

Obviously. Fine. Tony doesn’t care, Ross already has his failsafe. He wouldn’t expect free reign straight away. “Whatever you want,” Tony promises, laying his hands against the metal. Beautiful. He’s such a genius, God, imagine he made this thing, this perfect thing –

“And I shouldn’t need to tell you it won’t interrupt your duties. I still want dinner on the table every night, and the house should be kept, at the very least, tidy. Do you understand?”

“I understand. But – wait, how will I get here? I don’t have a car.”

“You have cars. You have, what, 231 cars at last count. At least that’s what your accountant told me. Surely one of them will suffice?”

He gets a car too? “And I can just come here? Whenever I like, as long as I’ve done – chores?”

“Sure. Whenever you like.”

Tony runs and hugs Ross again, laughing. “All of this is for me?” He asks, one more time, pulling back. “This isn’t a joke, or a test, or some kind of – “

“I’m a pretty straight forward guy. If I tell you it’s a gift, it’s a gift. There’s not much to over-analyse.”

“Thank you,” Tony says again, almost breathless. “I mean it. You didn’t have to do this. I know it was in our agreement, or whatever, but – if you hadn’t stuck to that, no one would have blamed you, and I would have been – powerless to do anything. But you stuck to your word, and that’s a big deal. For me, I mean.”

“We’re a team, Tony, didn’t I tell you already?”

_Two days ago he told you not to make a scene over Warren sending men to rape you. He threatened to use your money to pay Zeke Stane. He made you marry him in the first place. He fucks you every month no matter how much you hate it. This man is not your friend. He is not your friend. He is not your friend_

_Yeah, but he’s given me a suit. And he’s kept his word. Which is more than Steve ever did._

Ross tips up his chin, frowns down at him. “Are you happy?” He asks. “Does this make you happy? I only want for you to be happy.”

He smells earnest enough. Eyes imploring. “I know it’s been rough for you. Everything. Your whole life has been – not ideal, and I get that. But we do good together, Tony. And as long as I have your loyalty… I want you to be happy.”

_As long as I have your loyalty. If I lose your loyalty, I’ll take everything away._

The message is clear, as well-intentioned as Ross may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, there’s almost definitely some mild Stockholm syndrome going on. There’s no way Tony would have been that excited about being allowed do something that was his birthright before he married Ross. And I promise Tony won’t forget that Ross was the one who took it all away in the first place.
> 
> Birthday dinner party next chapter which means: Steve (and Bucky!). Dw, they’ll help Tony see clearly again.


	9. Chapter 9

Tony has to ask Ross’s permission to visit the graves.  
   
They’re out of state, in New York. Once, Tony would have just flown in his suit and been back in time for dinner, but Ellis is still hashing out new Accords, and Ross doesn’t want him to fly. “I’ll come with you,” he says cheerfully, “we’ll make a day of it.”  
   
He’s been like this, the past week. It’s because he’s ‘retired’. Too much time on his hands, suddenly taking too much interest in Tony’s day to day. He had wanted it to be private, he usually goes at Christmas, but couldn’t last year, for _obvious_ reasons.  
   
The babies only have graves because, when Tony lost the first, his parents had still been alive, and his mother had set space aside in their family plot. Obie was still in love with him, or pretending to be. The second wasn’t worth the money, Obie had said, but Tony had begged, and begged, and begged, and eventually Obie had capitulated, if only to shut him up. So the second had a little plaque in the ground, too. The third, Obie had threatened to burn and scatter the ashes in the trash, but Tony was so crazy and the action so cruel that even he couldn’t follow through, and so while there was no funeral for their dead child, Tony did get a gravestone.  
   
He’d wanted to go alone.  
   
Instead, Ross books them into the Ritz-Carlton for three days, and he brings John too. He insists they go for lunch, talks loudly about old war stories and politics and how much retirement is suiting him while Tony picks at a salad and smiles and Ross spits meat.  
   
They shop, because Ross wants to treat him for his birthday. A watch, designer shirts, lingerie, amounts of cash that make even Tony wince. He buys him a new collar. It costs more than an average person might make in five years, if they were fiscally conservative.  
   
“It’s leather,” the clerk had said, “we’ll cut it down to size. Obviously, you’re paying for the stones, but – could I just say, that the red will look striking against his skin.”  
   
So Ross hadn’t thought twice about handing over his card and paying for a collar with Tony’s money.  
   
“I want you to wear it,” he’d said, rough fingers skimming the back of his neck. He’s still sore there, but it doesn’t stop Ross from fixing the ruby diamond catastrophe to his throat. “And when our guests come. I want you to wear it then, too.”  
   
“Of course,” Tony says, tiredly. He has his garage waiting back home. All of this is just – supplication. Ross dotes on him. Today they’ll shop, and talk, and tonight –  
   
They’re sharing a bed. At home, Tony still says that he’s scared his nightmares will keep Ross awake, and Ross pretty much accepts that. But out here… Ross’s clammy hands wrapped around his waist, his nose stuck in his neck, legs tangled. Tony’s thoughts have been scattered lately, even with the work to keep him busy. SI is letting him back on a consulting basis in a few weeks, his suit needs tweaking. He’s not sure what to make of Ross, and his wandering hands. He’s never fucked him outside of a heat, short of that one evening, the first time, in the corridor.  
   
Tonight, Ross’s hands stray around his body, and Tony takes that. It’s not so bad. “I won’t,” he says, voice gruff. “I won’t touch you. I just want to look.”  
   
So Tony lets him. It’s harmless in the long run. It’s better than the other thing.  
   
They drive out to the graves the next day. Tony had ordered six bouquets, all generic, but still pricey. Buying a plot is expensive; most families have theirs bought in bulk, so they can be buried together. Tony’s mother, father, and three dead children all reside together under a grand marble tomb. Obie’s here, too. Tradition would dictate Tony was buried with him on the Stane plot, but Obie was self-made, and Howard considered him part of the family. So here they are. His family, all of them.  
   
“How old were you when they died?” Ross asks, referring to his parents.  
   
“19.”  
   
“And – that child, there. How old were you?”  
   
“18.”  
   
“Your parents were alive for that, then.”  
   
“They were.” It’s probably the reason Obie was so gracious with him. Still keeping up appearances, barely. He’d already gotten that prostitute pregnant, but Howard had looked the other way. His mom had chewed him out over it, taken Tony’s side; for all her flaws, she had understood. She knew what a threat little baby Zeke would be.  
   
“I understand,” Ross says, smugly. “I get why you hate Barnes now.”  
   
“Do you?” Tony asks, tiredly, laying flowers on his mother’s grave.  
   
“Sure. You didn’t know he killed your parents. And if your parents hadn’t died – Stane wouldn’t have… you know. Been hard on you.”  
   
‘Been hard on you’. Like Obie sometimes snapped, or had road-rage. “I knew he killed my parents,” Tony says irritably. “Steve told me years ago. That’s not why I hate him. Pass me that bouquet.”  
   
“So why do you hate him?”  
   
“Why do you think?” Tony snaps. “Because he – ruined everything.”  
   
“Tell me about these children,” Ross demands. “Did they have names?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Didn’t you want to name them?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Weird that you even have graves. You don’t strike me as sentimental.”  
   
Tony grits his teeth. Children are different. Every omega knows that. He doesn’t expect an alpha to understand. “Could you leave me?” He spits, exasperated. “I just want ten minutes, if that’s alright with you.”  
   
Ross blinks. “Oh, right. Yeah no, sure. I’ll just – be in the car.”  
   
“Thanks,” Tony mutters, turning back. It’s not even that he wants the solitude, exactly. He really isn’t that sentimental. But it’s a duty, a filial duty, and everyone always says he’s a good omega, loyal to a fault.  
   
Loyal to a fault. He rests flowers on Obie’s grave, too. His body isn’t buried there, obviously, almost everything was incinerated, the rest chunks at the bottom of the reactor. Obie’s will stated that he wanted Tony to be buried with him when the time came, clingy bastard, but the idea of his body resting against Obie’s forever, decaying and rotting, flesh pulling back from his bones –  
   
Tony spits on his grave. He doesn’t know why he came.  
   
   
Steve had never been traditional.  
   
It’s part of the prime-alpha thing, Bucky thinks. Traditions exist to protect, preserve. Prime alphas aren’t much good at following rules; they just take what they want, whenever they want it. Sometimes, they forget that others can’t do the same.  
   
But Steve always _tried._ It’s part of what made him so endearing, when they were kids. His desire to use whatever it was he had – that special _something,_ that mix or hormones, pheromones, no one really knows exactly what makes an alpha _prime –_ to do good. Help others, as best he could.  
   
But God, he had been so small. Bucky recognised it, way back when. He pledged himself to Steve long ago. He always knew they would make a pack, one day, maybe not the two of them together, but Steve and his wife, maybe an O. Bucky would be their protector, obviously. He would be a part of the family. It was never up for debate.  
   
Then things – happened. Bucky forgot.  
   
And he came back, still dogmatically loyal.  
   
Steve repaid it in kind. Bucky was – _is –_ grateful for that. Coming back up, from under control, he hears Steve has an omega now. A Stark. Bucky killed his parents. It’s blurry, those weeks. He knows Steve and the omega, Tony, they disagree about something. The Accords. He knows they strike a bargain.  
   
All he can remember is Stark’s face, features twisted in fury, but scenting pain. Not physical, like the omegas from the war, or the omegas he’s throttled in his hands. It’s the deep seated, keening pain of an omega left behind, or betrayed, or abandoned. Bucky still smells it in his nostrils, thick. It’s the last scent Steve carried of him, before they left, and the reason he was so desperate to come home.  
   
Now, his knuckles are white on the wheel. “Stop,” Natasha says sharply. “Pull over. Bucky: drive.”  
   
Steve is short, ‘jaggy’ is the word they would use if he was omega. Still, he obeys, pulls onto the side of the road and lets Bucky take the wheel. They’re staying in a little B&B about an hour out. It’s cute. The town is cute, very quaint, very… old fashioned. They travel in silence a little while longer, Bucky smooth and steady on the road.  
   
“I just – don’t want him to think we forgot him,” Steve says, breaking the quiet, stilted. “And I don’t want – do you think the flowers were too much? On top of the present? Maybe it’s a bit too familiar, I don’t want – “  
   
“I’ll give him the flowers,” Natasha says. “It seems friendly from me.”  
   
“Right,” Steven nods enthusiastically, “ _right._ Good idea, that’s a good idea. Tell him they’re from me, okay? Just – let him know. I don’t want him to think – “  
   
“You forgot him. I know,” Natasha says, quietly.  
   
Bucky hadn’t known what to get him. It’s polite to bring a gift to a birthday. “Well,” Natasha had sighed, “he likes building things, but – I don’t know if he’s allowed, anymore. Maybe – play it safe. I think it’s better we all just play it safe.”  
   
“Did you smell him? At the gala? Who smelt – wrong. So wrong,” Steve says, twisting to look at Natasha in the back. “What is that, do you know? What could it be? Is it stress? Is he being hurt? I know you can’t always tell, but – “  
   
 “Medication, maybe,” Natasha suggests. “Could be anything. For his heart, for his heat. It doesn’t need to be a bad thing.”  
   
“Of course it’s a bad thing,” Steve snaps, “it’s his doctor, that bastard. He’s a puritan, I always suspected he was, and I _told_ him to find a new one but he’s so stubborn. And now all these – sickos like him think they’re allowed to just be open about the fact they want to fuck their own children – “  
   
“Steve!” Bucky cries “Jesus – would you dial it back?”  
   
“It’s true,” he insists. “You remember back in – where was it, Belgium? There was that family on the farm – how many of them, Buck? Mating brother to sister and cousin to cousin and nephew to aunt, it was disgusting, but hey, they were _pure,_ so apparently that makes it a valid lifestyle choice these days.”  
   
Bucky thinks that’s true, actually. He can’t figure out how civil rights have slipped backwards in the time he’s been gone.  
   
“Maybe don’t talk politics at the table,” Natasha suggests. “I don’t see it going well.”  
   
“This is going to be painful. It’s going to be awful. We shouldn’t have come. In fact – no, we should go. We need to. But I tell you, this wasn’t Tony’s idea, Ross has put him up to it, and – fuck, he’s probably got a hit squad waiting for us.”  
   
“If Ross wanted you dead, he’d be much cleverer about it,” Natasha says, bluntly. “Don’t underestimate him. Either of you.”  
   
No need to tell Bucky. Bucky doesn’t underestimate him at all. He may not be prime, but he likes to think what Steve lacks in – finesse, he makes up for with his own patience. Once upon a time, it manifested as charm. Nowadays… he likes to think he’s still a good foil to Steve, despite everything. They're a pair. Where Steve goes, Bucky follows.  
   
   
The house is stranded in the middle of old land. Once, this is the kind of house that would have been owned by slavers, probably. Rich cotton farmers and their alpha wives, omegas for the children. Now, it belongs to Ross. They travel up the winding driveway, knock on the imposing front-door.  
   
The omega is slightly – what is that, drunk? Cheeks a high red, smelling of… wine, and bubbles, and fun. “My guests!” Stark slurs, slightly, throwing open the front door. “On time, always so punctual. Well, not always. Well, when it counts. Well – oh, is this for me? Beautiful, Natasha, you have such good taste, lilies are my favourite. And – “  
   
Steve. The atmosphere goes sticky, tense. Ross has appeared, standing at Tony’s shoulder. Tony is – smiling, fixatedly. “Steve,” he says, “it’s so good to see you again, finally.” He offers his hand. Steve kisses it, briefly. And then it’s gone.  
   
“Rogers,” Ross barks, shaking his hand roughly, excessively hard and excessively long. “Good to see you. Glad you saw reason, of course.”  
   
 _No thanks to you,_ Bucky thinks lightly. Tony is busying himself with the flowers, but they’re going to have to face it eventually. They’re going to have to greet each other, even though they’re both terrified. “Tony,” Natasha says, wrapping her arm behind Bucky’s back, “this is Bucky. You haven’t really met, properly.”  
   
Tony nods, tightly. “Of course,” he says, “last time I saw you – was a while ago.”  
   
“I was still Winter,” Bucky says, and it drops like lead into the conversation. No one speaks. Was he… not supposed to say that? Was that the wrong thing to say? Normally Steve helps him out, but Steve is still gazing wistfully at Tony like he’s the only beautiful thing left on earth. “I mean,” Bucky croaks, trying to correct himself, “I wasn’t myself, last time we met. So I’m sorry if I caused offence.”  
   
Better. They resume. “Of course,” Tony says graciously, and is that pity in his eyes? He certainly scents something tricky, something… yeah, pity, sympathy, mixed with drunkness and nerves. “Well, that’s behind us now, obviously.”  
   
“Obviously,” Ross interjects, reaching out to take Bucky’s hand. “Thaddeus Ross,” he says, as if he doesn’t know. Bucky lets him dominate the handshake, avoids his eye; he’s forgotten how to alpha, since – since. All his instincts get muddled and trapped and sometimes it’s better just to submit.  
   
“Happy birthday,” Steve says. “I – got you this.”  
   
Steve moves to pass Tony the little box, but Ross gets in the way, smoothly takes it from his hand. “Oh, how lovely,” he says, “I’m sure it’s beautiful, whatever it is. John,” he calls over his shoulder, “take the gifts off our guest’s hands, Tony can look at them later.”  
   
“We’ve been having a party,” Tony confides as a tall, pale man takes his gifts away. “I may or may not be a wee bit tipsy, but – we’ve been celebrating, haven’t we?”  
   
“We have,” Ross says, smug, covered in a self-effacing air of superiority, placing one heavy hand on Stark’s shoulder. “Tony, why don’t you tell them the good news?”  
   
 _He’s pregnant,_ is Bucky first, horrific thought. Steve seems to have the same idea, because he can’t stop his features twisting in panic. “I got my license,” Tony says, proudly. “I can fly again.”  
   
“That’s – great,” Natasha replies, because at times like these, she always knows what to say. “And that means you’ll be…”  
   
“We haven’t hashed out details,” Ross interrupts, and he squeezes Tony’s shoulder, tight. “We can discuss specifics tonight. In fact – boys? If you would be so gracious as to join me in the study. John,” he calls, waving over the tall man, “show – what do I call you now, is it From Romanoff? Of Rogers? From Rogers?”  
   
Tony’s eyes are sharp, quick. His head jerks, whipping round to glare at Natasha; even Bucky can scent the – what is that, jealousy? Rage? A hint of fear? “From Romanoff,” Natasha says firmly. “Nothing has changed.”  
   
“Formalities, of course. From Romanoff, if you would go with John and Tony, I’m sure you both have a lot of catching up to do.” John is going to watch them, Bucky realises. He’s Ross’s spy. He’ll stop Natasha from saying anything too truthful.  
   
“Of course,” Natasha says easily. “Tony, I love your collar.” And she hooks his arm, drags him away, even though he still smells sour. Her voice drips down the corridor, and then disappears.  
   
“I’m doing this for him,” Ross says, watching their retreating backs. “He needs the stimulation and – quite frankly, I think you’re the only friends he has. All the time he’s been here, he hasn’t had a single person visit.”  
   
Steve scent goes – ah, fuck, Steve, don’t take it like that. His scent has gone _shameshameangerangeranger_ and then flattening back down to _sadsadsad._ “He lived for his work,” Steve says quietly. “You took it away from him, and then you were shocked he didn’t thank you.”  
   
“In the interest of keeping things civil, I’m not going to tell you what I really think. But Rogers, I protected him. Sharks were coming his way. You know the President wanted him? And if not, they were going to sell him to a Puritan? I stepped in, I said no, I said that I would take him instead, because I’m not a fucking traditionalist. I _know_ Tony has more to offer than just – his fantastic meatloaf.”  
   
“Yeah, it was a real hardship for you,” Steve growls, almost sub-audible. “Taking him into your home, having him in your – in your bed. Real hardship. I am so very, very grateful.”  
   
Ross smirks. The atmosphere in the corridor notches up another level. “You seem to be under the impression I snatched him in the night. No, that’s not what happened. He came to me, and asked me to marry him. Because he’s a clever boy. He wanted to wait for you, but he knew you weren’t reliable, he knew you were too _busy_ playing with the king to ever come home, and I offered him an out.”  
   
Ross says this reasonably, calmly. Bucky, standing at Steve’s shoulder, can see his mind ticking over. _Do not trust!_ His instincts scream. “Maybe we shouldn’t be discussing this in the hallway,” Steve says, eventually. “Bucky and I haven’t even taken off our coats.”  
   
“Of course,” Ross says generously, gesturing down the hall. “My study is this way. Drinks, boys? I have whiskey, scotch, sherry.”  
   
“Beer,” Steve asks bluntly.  
   
“Beer. Okay. I’ll go Tony to – John, I mean, I’ll get John to bring us drink. Meanwhile, you make yourself comfortable.” Ross holds open the doors to his office, smiles tightly. “I won’t be long.”  
   
Steve doesn’t bother sitting. He fishes his phone from his pocket, does something with the screen, sends a pulsing blue light across the room. It beeps, three times. “The room is bugged,” Steve frowns, “nothing out of the usual, though. It would be standard for the Secretary of State, the house is probably full of them.”  
   
Tony’s scent lingers here. Nothing scary, no fear scent, or stress. Just Tony. He seems to cling to the weave of the couch, the pillows; he must sit here often. Steve picks up on it. “You see that?” He hisses, urgently. “You see how he’s trying to be reasonable?”  
   
“I see it.”  
   
“That’s – it’s all games. Don’t let it sway you.”  
   
It won’t. That’s not the risk. Bucky isn’t the emotional one of the two of them. It’s Steve who needs to watch himself, but Bucky doesn’t want to risk upsetting him now.  
   
“Drinks,” Ross announces, pushing through the door. “I bought you a beer,” he says to Bucky, looking down at him. He’s a tall man, taller than him, even though Bucky could probably punch a hole through his head. “I don’t know what you drink.”  
   
“Beer – “ his throat is rough, he has to cough. “Beer is fine.”  
   
Ross is laughing at him again, a confused sort of laughter behind his eyes, like he can’t figure out why Bucky is more timid than a virgin O on their wedding night. “You’re not a talker, I take it.”  
   
“Buck likes to listen more than grandstanding,” Steve interjects, smiling. _You should try it sometime,_ is the unsaid implication.  
   
“Well, of course,” Ross agrees. “We need more alpha who think with their heads, not with their – other places.”  
   
“You flatter me,” Steve says flatly.  
   
Ross smiles, sharp. “There’s something we can agree on,” Ross says, examining his bookshelf. “At least, I think so. My estimation of you could be wrong.”  
   
Steve’s nostrils flare. “What?” He asks, bluntly. “A favour? Is that the real reason you called us here?”  
   
“Not just for me. This helps Tony, too.” Ross examines both their faces, judges the mood in the room, and continues. “Christopher Warren,” he says casually. “He’s running. He’s going to challenge Ellis.”  
   
“And?” Steve says tersely. “The ‘tans ran in my time as well, they never won.”  
   
“He’s going to win.”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
Ross looks up. “He’s going to win,” he says calmly. “We’ve done our own internal polling. He’s leading in over Ellis in five key states. Lots of angry alphas and bitter betas – they think omegas take jobs. Do you know a single omega that’s ever stolen a job off an alpha? As if that’s a real thing that’s happening. They think – the omega population is going down, and something just _has_ to be done about it. I told Tony he wasn’t going to win because I don’t want to upset him – we think he was the one who coordinated the attack last week, if you must know,” Ross adds. “If he takes the candidacy, Ellis still has a good a chance as any. But I’m not Warren’s biggest fan. It’s not something I want to risk.”  
   
Steve shakes his head. “Your polling date is wrong,” he says. “Puritans are – nothing. A minority.”  
   
“Sure, but they’ve tapped into something bigger. Once upon a time, we just blamed immigrants, like every other damn country on earth. Now, we’re looking inwards. Nostalgia, Rogers. People miss the simple days, when omegas were good and alphas were king and betas could go anywhere if they worked hard enough. People want to believe that. And even if they only believe it for this year, by the time election season is done that will be too late.”  
   
“So what are you saying?”  
   
Ross turns, braces his hands on his hips, chewing his cigar. “Warren coordinated the attack on Tony. At the gala. He sent men after him.”  
   
And there it is. Steve’s eyes bulge in his head. “He – oh, that fucker. That – _fucker,_ that – “  
   
“Careful now,” Ross warns. “You’re not supposed to care that much, remember?”  
   
“Why?” Steve blusters, “To what end? Is he just psychotic? Why would he – I’m going to kill him. I’m going to have to kill him,” Steve says, sounding hilariously resigned, like he just decided what he wanted to eat for dinner. “There, problem solved. I’m going to kill Warren for you, is that what you wanted to hear?”  
   
Even Ross looks a little taken aback. “No, that’s – not what I wanted to hear. Don’t kill him. You’d make life a lot more difficult for everyone if you did.”  
   
“So what do you want from me?” Steve near laughs, looks at Bucky. “C’mon. You didn’t really invite me here because you wanted to help Tony, right? You wouldn’t do that.”  
   
Ross looks like he’s sucking a lemon. “I really wanted to discuss more with you before I brought it up.”  
   
He wanted time to woo them, Bucky thinks. Time to manipulate them. Time to politic. It’s what he’s best at, but Steve’s too blunt for that, hasn’t got the patience. You see? Patience. It always comes back to the fact Steve just isn’t used to the give and take, more of the take, then the give. “Well you’ll have to hurry up, won’t you?”  
   
Ross shrugs, like the loss of opportunity to manipulate them means nothing. “Fine,” he says. “As you know, Warren tried to have Tony raped, painfully, and left to stew in a corridor at your gala. Just keep that in mind,” Ross grimaces. “Listen to me when I tell you – sure, you can send men after him. You can’t kill him, because you need the public on your side, and in case you superheroes didn’t realise, it’s illegal. There is something you could do, to stop him. To really put a – wedge in his wheel.”  
   
“Which is?”  
   
“You could run.”  
   
Steve frowns. “Run where?”  
   
Ross rolls his eyes, like they’re idiots. “Run, Captain, _run._ For – President.”  
   
Steve stares at Ross for a long time. Then he looks at Bucky. And then slowly, he starts to laugh. “Are you – crazy? Are you out of your mind?”  
   
“No,” Ross says defensively, “I’m extending an olive branch.”  
   
“No, you’re dressing up your own naked desire for revenge as concern for my omega, which I don’t like,” Steve says bluntly, laughter cutting out sharply. “Do you think I’m stupid? We all know Ellis turfed you out, so now you’re looking for another horse to stick your wagon. I’m not your fucking horse. Find some other shmuch, schmooze someone else. If I want to hurt Warren, I’ll do it my own way, not as your stooge.”  
   
Ross narrows his eyes. “I’m trying to be reasonable, Rogers. You don’t want to risk upsetting me now – “  
   
“And if I run, and if I win, what do I get from you? Or rather, what do I have to give you?”  
   
Ross shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing. Maybe the Vice-Presidency, I don’t know.”  
   
Steve laughs again. “Never in a million years would I give you anything you want, Ross.”  
   
Ross sucks his lip. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Soon, Tony and I will have children. I’ll give you our firstborn O, how about that?”  
   
Fucking hell, the audacity. Does Ross have balls of steel or is he really that stupid? To even _bring up_ the idea of Tony having his children – to even _suggest_ that selling one to Steve is… acceptable, or even something Steve would like – he must be mad. Mad or desperate. Both.  
   
 “There won’t be much difference,” Ross says, casually. “And by the time it’s sixteen, you’ll be, what, fifty? There was a bigger age gap when Tony married for the first time, his line handles it well. It’ll be like a mini-Tony, and you can quit your pining. On top of that, obviously, the goddamn _presidency,_ which isn’t a prize to get sniffy about – “  
   
“How could you even – “ Steve’s eyes widen, then narrow. “My God, you’d sell your own daughter for any shot at power, wouldn’t you?”  
   
“My daughter doesn’t speak to me.”  
   
“Fucking hell, I wonder why.”  
   
Ross draws himself up to his full height; standing, toe to toe with Steve, he’s actually slightly taller. Not as built, obviously, but still stocky, and obviously still strong. Didn’t he have a heart attack? Steve had told him a few days ago that they probably didn’t even need to worry, because Ross would be dead soon. No such luck, it appears. “Rogers,” he says, that small sneer on his lips, blatantly taunting but pretending to be sincere. “I am giving you a _chance.”_  
   
“A chance?” Steve mocks. “Before what? Before you spend the rest of your life playing golf? I think I’ll take my own chances, Ross.”  
   
“You misunderstand me,” Ross smiles. “What I meant was – I’m giving you a chance to make the right decision for your sake, and for Tony’s.”  
   
“You don’t care that much about Tony.”  
   
“Why do you think that? Why wouldn’t I? Why wouldn’t I love him, he’s mine, isn’t he? I’m not some – bogeyman. I took an opposing side to you, as did Tony, and I’ve tried my best to support what we’ve believed in from the start. Why is that so hard to understand?”  
   
“Because I don’t trust you.”  
   
Ross sighs dramatically, breaks away. He walks to the bar, helps himself to another whiskey. “Warren tried to hurt him, doesn’t that just upset you?” He asks, casually. “And I mean – I own him. Steve, I can do whatever I want. I never would, because I love him so very dearly, he’s very special to me, you know,” Ross continues, voice sickly sweet, scent dripping with disdain.  
   
“But, if you were to make things difficult – I suppose I could have him sent away. And what would you do then? There are other things, too, all legal. Again, obviously I would never _dream_ of harming a hair on his head, but he’s such a sensitive creature, isn’t he? He was so excited when he got his license back…” Ross considers, then waves a hand. “No,” he says, “no, maybe you’re right. You and me – we couldn’t work together. Two primes in a room, it just wouldn’t work.”  
   
“So that’s it. You’ll do anything to stick a pin in Ellis’s balloon. You’ll try and recruit me, the person you hate most in the world, and you’ll threaten your own wife to do it. You’ll pledge away your child.”  
   
Ross frowns. “Did I threaten Tony? I don’t recall threatening Tony at all.”  
   
“He’s killed people for less, Ross.”  
   
“Oh trust me,” Ross spits, his smile sardonic, his words acid, “I don’t show all my cards on the first round. I’m harder to kill than you think.”  
   
“Dinner.”  
   
All three of them turn; it’s the lanky beta steward whose name Bucky has forgotten, freakishly pale, like he never sees the sun.  
   
“I’ve been told to inform you that dinner is ready to be served in the dining room.”  
   
“Thank you, John. You boys – go on. I’ll be right behind.”  
   
Tony’s scent is still sour, and Natasha is studiously avoiding all their gazes, but he perks up when they enter. “Dinner,” he says, gesturing at the table. “I – what’s wrong? Did you hash things out?”  
   
Would Steve have the heart to tell Tony no, they didn’t, and there’s a very real chance that because of them Tony will never fly again? “We did,” Ross gets in first, sliding a hand round Tony’s waist. “This smells delicious, Tony, you’ve really outdone yourself.”  
   
He tries to kiss him on the cheek, but Tony has already slipped away. An accident, maybe. More likely not. “Well I want to talk about it,” Tony insists, letting Ross pull out his chair. He looks at Steve, head on, for the first time. “What did you agree?” He asks, _demands._  
   
Ross stares at Steve, gloating. _Go on,_ he seems to be saying, _tell him the truth._ “We decided I would discuss it with you at a later date. No one knows the armour better than you, and we’ll need to figure out logistics with an expert,” he says, softly.  
   
This seems to satisfy Tony. “Good,” he says, “because I have so many – “  
   
“I thought maybe we could avoid work talk at the table,” Ross interrupts. “Anything else, just – not work.”  
   
“Sorry,” Tony says, as if by rote. “You’re right, I’m so silly. There’s soup for starter, I hope you enjoy it. Does anyone want something to drink? I -- ” Tony smacks his brow. “Stupid me, I forgot wine. Does anyone want wine? I can get wine – “  
   
He’s so nervous, but he’s so good at hiding it. His scent is pretty flat, not giving anything away. The only reason Bucky knows is because he’s got this scared look in his eyes, like he’s desperate but not wanting to show it. He had the same look in his eyes when Steve climbed into the quinjet with Bucky, his fear evident but hiding it for Steve’s sake.  
   
“This is fine,” Natasha says, “it’s already too much. It’s your birthday, I’m surprised you didn’t get someone else to cook.”  
   
Tony opens his mouth to respond, but Ross gets there first. “He likes cooking,” he says. “It keeps him busy.”  
   
“Right,” Tony agrees. “Yeah.” He’s stirring his butternut soup around his bowl. His clothes are expensive, Bucky is just now noticing. One of those high-necked sweater, tight fitting, with a logo that – Bucky can’t recognise. Some kind of designer brand, probably. The shirt goes almost all the way up his neck, demure-but-not, and is off-set by a collar. It must have cost more than – hell, it probably cost more than this house.  
   
“You like it?” Ross asks, noticing Bucky’s stares. “It’s new. Birthday gift. Well, one of them.”  
   
“It’s – yes.”  
   
“Yes?” Ross questions. “What does that mean?”  
   
Bucky opens his mouth, shuts it again. He’s can’t meet anyone’s eyes, hot shame burning it’s way up the back of his neck. He hates himself, hates that words don’t come out right, he’s trying, he’s trying so hard to make this right –  
   
“I know what you mean,” Tony says. He speaks like the words are a chore, eyes fixed on his bowl, face grim, but he speaks up anyway. “I was speechless when I saw it. All I could manage was ‘yes’, too.”  
   
Pity. Tony has taken pity on him, Bucky realises. Ross chuffs proudly at the praises, stretches his arm across Tony’s shoulders, and – he must smooth against the back of his neck, because Tony is suddenly standing, abrupt.  
   
“You know – I’m convinced the risotto is burning. Would you just give me a second?”  
   
He leaves, rubbing his nape, Ross’s arm still draped across his chair. “We went to New York,” Ross explain lazily. “You know, as a treat. We visited the graves,” he adds, looking directly at Bucky. “His mother, his father. God, so sad. Honestly, between friends, I’ve never seen him so sentimental. And then, there were the children – wait, where are you going?”  
   
“I need to – use the bathroom,” he stumbles. “Just continue without me.” He doesn’t want to leave Steve and Natasha, but he doesn’t have a choice. If he has to stay and hear – he gets a ringing in his ears, a pressure behind his eyes. It’s dangerous. It’s better to take a breather.  
   
“Oh, whatever will we do without you scintillating conversation,” Ross drawls.  
   
He flees. He’s pathetic. He’s aware he’s pathetic. There isn’t much to be done about it.  
   
Tony is in the kitchen, bent over an oven, levering out something roasted. Vegetables, maybe. He kicks it shut, turns, rests his food on the island and then --  
   
Jumps out of his skin, almost burns himself on the baking tray. “You,” he snaps, “what the hell is wrong with you? Standing over there like a fucking monolith, you nearly gave me a heart attack.  
   
“Stark,” Bucky begins, mouth dry, because he needs to say his part, needs to get this out of the way now before he loses his chance. “I – hello. I hope I’m not – I hope – I wanted to tell you – _ask_ you, I wanted to ask you – “  
   
“You shouldn’t be here. Go back to the others.”  
   
“Wait,” Bucky blurts. “Stark – Tony. I wanted to ask you – I’m sorry. Is all. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry if I’ve – if I’ve caused this. I didn’t – never wanted you to suffer for it. And neither did Steve, Christ, never would Steve – “  
   
“Steve,” Tony huffs, and he narrows his eyes. “Don’t you talk to me about Steve.”  
   
“I never did,” Bucky pleads, incoherent. “With us, there never _was_ an – us. We’re not. I’m – “ Bucky doesn’t know how to articulate this: he is with Steve, always, but never like _that._ He’s a guardian, a protector, he’s the addition to whatever Steve needs, he will protect Steve forever but he would never, _ever,_ hurt another to get his way –  
   
Tony has bared his teeth, rage barely controlled. “Get out,” he’s growling. “Get out before I do something I regret.”  
   
But he needs to understand. Steve can’t help him if he doesn’t understand. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he says weakly. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”  
   
Tony’s hands are fisting in his shirt, silent, urgent. “ _Natasha,”_ he asks quietly, anger deep-rooted, an old wound. “Has she been sniffing around? She said Steve held her license, what’s that about? You know she – she fucked my other alpha, she’s a homewrecker, she doesn’t even care if I – “  
   
Bucky blinks, taken aback. “What?” He blurts. “Natasha? Are you – joking?”  
   
Tony’s fingers are digging into his chest, desperate. “I can’t compete like that,” he spits, “I can’t go against another omega like that – not _her,_ she always wins. Please,” he begs, “just tell me. She wouldn’t do that, would she? Steve wouldn’t – would he?”  
   
“No!” Bucky cries. “Are you – “ Natasha had said, hadn’t she? Tony is possessive, more than most. “No, Stark, no. It’s some legal workround, they got Natasha on record as his sister. He holds it as some kind of – brother, patriarch, I don’t know. But they’re not _together –_ no!”  
   
Tony lets go, all at once. He reeks, hot with shame. “Go,” he snaps, “leave me alone. I don’t care, just go.”  
   
“I wanted to tell you I was sorry.”  
   
“Oh please,” he says bitterly, “it’s not you I hate. Just get out. I need to finish this.”  
   
He turns back to his vegetables. Bucky wants to say more, but he knows if he even dared… it wouldn’t be beyond Tony to inform Ross. He might actually hate Tony that much.  
   
It’s no better back in the dining room. It’s silent, dead silent, Ross sucking his lips, lounging in his seat and sipping his drink, Steve with his shoulders hunched, leant forward, staring daggers at Ross. The scrape of Bucky’s chair against the floor makes him wince, as does Ross’s awkward cough.  
   
“Lovely weather we’re having,” Natasha says.  
   
“Yeah,” Ross agrees. “It’s – very sunny. Which is nice. In Summer.”  
   
Natasha seems to give up. They sit like this for another four minutes, twenty-seven seconds, and then Tony is entering with food stacked up on a tray. “Here I am,” he says, slightly hysterical, like he can sense the mood. Omegas like him – they’re trained to make sure there’s never a dull moment. Awkward silences are probably up there on Tony’s list of number one fears with – Bucky doesn’t know. Losing Steve, maybe.  
   
“Smells delicious,” Steve ventures, and Tony gives him a wobbly smile, still not meeting his eyes. “Here,” Steve stands, “let me help you – “  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony says quickly, “I can handle it. You – you sit. Don’t,” he says sharply, whipping away his hand. “Just sit.”  
   
Steve smells all hurt, and Ross does the ultimate rude thing and laughs at it. “Oh calm down,” he drawls, “he snaps at everyone, not just you.”  
   
“He never snapped at me,” Steve blurts, voice focusedly calm.  
   
“I doubt that highly. Tony,” Ross announces, “who do you find more irritating? Me or Rogers?”  
   
Tony’s hand is shaking trying to plate out food. It’s his birthday, Bucky thinks sadly. He deserves better on his birthday than running around and getting them drinks. “I – couldn’t possibly answer,” he says quickly. “Natasha? Would you like salad?”  
   
Natasha smiles at him, and Tony smiles back, and whatever awkwardness had been there before has disappeared entirely. “Actually, I wanted to talk about my gift,” Natasha says. “Asking Ross’s permission, of course.”  
   
“What’s that?”  
   
Natasha smiles, a beautiful, beaming smile. “I’ve bought Tony some sessions at the spa up the road. What’s it called, Old Country paradise, or something.”  
   
“I know it,” Tony says. “I’ve been once or twice.”  
   
“Well I just thought I should check in with Ross before we book anything. Shouldn’t be a problem, now that you have a license…”  
   
Ross frowns. “That depends. How many sessions? How long?”  
   
Natasha does this thing where she flushes, slightly, makes her scent go sticky, embarrassed. “There are a few – beauty treatments. O things. Not really table conversation. Laser treatments, uh, _waxing._ It’s all a bit – “  
   
“I get it,” Ross says quickly. “Yeah, sure. Of course. He can do what he likes. I’ve been saying he should for a while now, haven’t I Tony?”  
   
“You have,” Tony agrees, surveying the table. “Does anyone need anything else? I can get – “  
   
“Sit down,” Steve says, gently. “It’s your birthday. We’ve barely seen you.”  
   
Which is probably Ross’s plan. Invite them here under the guise of friendship, proposition them, make sure Tony’s too busy to actually talk to any of them.  
   
“Well, there’s a lot to be done. And we still haven’t discussed any of the things I wanted to discuss. I – “ Tony swallows, puts down the tongs in the salad bowl. “Is everyone ready to eat?”  
   
“What about you?” Natasha asks.  
   
“Not hungry. I can never eat after I drink. I’m just – here for the conversation,” Tony says weakly, obviously lying. He looks like he’d rather be hiding in bed somewhere, far away. He looks frail, suddenly, like the dinner has taken a lot out of him. He smells – bad. Not in a rude way, just something _off_ about his scent. Stress, maybe. _Poor boy,_ he thinks, before he can stop himself. A part of him, something buried so deep, and so dark, wants to gently smooth down the back of his head to his nape, stroke there until he evens out, goes soft and snoozy and doesn’t smell so bad anymore.  
   
The impulse shocks him. He hasn’t felt like that in – he can’t remember. Seventy years, would be his guess. Tony is caught by Ross’s arm, wrapping round his waist and tugging him onto his lap. “You’re never hungry,” Ross says, _holding_ him there, even while Tony tries to pull his arm away. “I think he doesn’t eat enough,” he says conversationally.  
   
Steve looks like he’s about lose his mind. His eyes are wide, he’s barely moving, his scent has gone – fight. Fuck, fuck, he’s edging into fight, creeping closer, and this is just one more nail in the coffin. “Let him go,” he says bluntly, “this isn’t the place.”  
   
“Steve’s right,” Tony manages, trying to push away. “It’s so – impolite, Thadd. C’mon, let me do this and – later, we can do whatever you – “  
   
But Tony has made a critical misstep. He’s said two words, just two words, that have forced Ross’s gloating scent into something ugly, jealous and bitter. _Steve’s right._ Tony doesn’t seem to have realised that Ross and Steve are at war. He doesn’t realise what Ross has offered, Steve rejected, and what has been threatened. He doesn’t know yet that Ross will use him however he sees fit to push Steve to the edge.  
   
His grip on Tony slips, and the omega manages to push away, standing and brushing himself down. Ross’s hand still hands there, though, eyes narrowed, staring at Steve and Steve staring back. It’s warfare. The room has gone silent, and yet still, Tony seems oblivious. He takes his seat, picks at some salad. “You know,” he says, “I think I’ve used too much – oh.”  
   
Whatever Tony had been about to say fizzles on his lips, is exhaled in a small gasp of air. “Oh – “ he manages, surprised, and then his shoulders start to droop. Steve stops, Natasha stops, they all stop. _I can do what I like, Captain. You won’t stop me, because I can do whatever the hell I want._  
   
He’s drawing his pointer finger lightly over Tony’s nape. Enough that he has to blink, focus on his words. “I mean,” he starts again, “there’s too much salad on the sauce. I mean – “ he frowns, “I mean, dressing. Too much dressing on the salad,” he manages, “I hope – I hope – “  
   
Ross is using nails, gently scratching them against Tony’s neck, and you can see, briefly, there is an attempt to wrest back control. But he gives in, folds easily, eyes drooping shut and letting his head tip downwards. It’s increasingly hard for Bucky to focus; Tony’s started to give off this woozy, soft scent that makes him want to curl up like a kitten on the floor. Steve doesn’t seem as affected; he’s holding his knife and fork so tight, Bucky’s surprised they haven’t snapped.  
   
“What were we talking about?” Ross asks innocently.  
   
Steve’s eye is twitching. Frantically, Bucky looks at Natasha. Surely she can come up with something, can’t she?  
   
She gives him an almost imperceptible shake of the head. For either of them to get involved now could be suicide. If Steve tips into fight, he won’t care about any of them, not even Tony, long enough to stop him from ripping off Ross’s head.  
   
Tony’s so lax he’s starting to droop onto the table. “Aww,” Ross says, simpering, “are you tired, sweetheart?” What does that feel like, Bucky wonders, what does it feel like to have someone touch you there?  
   
Tony is very still, brow furrowed like every word takes intense, single-minded focus. “I d’nt underst’nd,” he mumbles, eyes shut, confused. “Wha’d’di’do?”  
   
“You? Oh, nothing sweetheart. Not really. This alpha here, though, the Captain. He was very rude to me earlier. And we’ve talked about your behaviour in front of guests, Tony, haven’t we? You remember what happened with Warren?”  
   
Ross pinches, just slightly, and Tony nods quickly. “I r’member.”  
   
“Good boy,” Ross soothes, eyes focused only on Steve. “I’d hate to have to punish you.”  
   
Steve stands. _Fuck, this is it._ Ross forms his hand into a claw, settles it warningly above Tony’s nape. _I’ll do it,_ he’s saying. _I’ll hurt him, if you dare._  
   
Still, Steve stands, although he doesn’t dare move closer. Tony seems utterly unaware of how close all of them are to death. “D’nt,” he manages, with a sharp intake of breath. “I d’nt want t’be punished,” he slurs, voice taking on an unnatural whine, one Bucky’s never heard from Tony before. His breath comes little faster, like he’s trying to stave off panic, and then Ross strokes him with the palm of his hand.  
   
“I tell you what,” he whispers in Tony’s ear. “If you come and sit on my lap, like a good little boy, I won’t punish you. I’ll wipe the slate clean. Does that sound reasonable?”  
   
Tony is nodding, drugged. “Uh huh,” he agrees, “I’m – a good boy.” Fuck, Tony would probably agree to anything like this. He’d say he was a ten-legged octopus-giraffe hybrid, if that’s what Ross asked him.  
   
Steve’s fist hits the table. Bucky had known, really, that the night would end like this. They had all known. There was no way Ross was ever going to be civil. This night has no other ending. From the very start, Ross has sought to antagonise them, weaken them, and now --  
   
Tony has jerked at the sound, briefly shaken from his reverie. Mild adrenalin, maybe, that came with the shock of Steve’s fist. He manages push back his chair, scraping against the wooden floor, and wobbling to his feet. “Drinks,” he says dizzily, “we need…” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes shut in obvious focus. “Drinks,” he finishes. “I’ll get them now. Whiskey for Thadd, beer for Steve, vodka for Nat – Bucky, what do you take?” He’s still slurring, slightly, unsteady on his feet.  
   
Bucky opens his mouth, but finds it dry. “Beer,” he manages, voice rough. Is that it? Have they escaped confrontation? Steve’s head is bowed, his fist still curled on the table, his scent simmering somewhere dangerously close to fight, but Bucky realises he’d reigned it in for Tony’s sake. He’d caused the commotion to give Stark a chance to get out.    
   
As soon as he leaves, Steve is stalking round the table, Ross is pushing back his chair, hands out, neck bared. “Now hold on,” he’s saying, but Steve’s hand is already round his throat, _lifting._  
   
“Stop!” Natasha hisses. “Steve, you can’t, you can’t kill him – “  
   
“I’m not gonna kill him,” Steve grunts, squeezing once. Ross is twitching, his feet kicking in the air, hovering just slightly above the ground. His hands claw at Steve’s fingers, but Steve is unfazed. “You touch him like that again – when he says stop, or when he doesn’t want your dirty fingers anywhere near him? I’ll rips off you fucking hands, and stick them in your throat, understand? Understand?!” Steve shakes him slightly and Ross nods, best he can.  
   
And then he’s crashing to the floor, coughing, taking deep sucking breaths. “You lunatic,” he wheezes, eyes watering. “Are you out of your – “  
   
Steve raises his fist to go in again, but Bucky holds him back. “Enough,” he says. “That’s enough. He gets the message.”  
   
Steve exhales with barely controlled rage. “Apologise to Bucky,” he spits. “You’ve treated him like shit all night. Apologise.”  
   
“Oh come on, Rogers – “  
   
“ _Do it.”_  
   
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ross says hastily, holding out his hands by his head. “I was being an ass, is that what you want to hear? Fucking hell, what is wrong with you people? Get the hell out, get the hell out of my house.” Ross is clambering to his feet, spitting rage. “Out!” He shouts, pointing at the door. “Out! Get out!”  
   
“What’s the matter?” Tony asks, entering again with drinks in hand. “Are you fighting? On my birthday?”  
   
Ross is rubbing his throat, eyes narrowed. “You have three minutes,” he croaks. “Three minutes, and then they have to be out, and if they’re not…” Ross doesn’t dare threaten Tony now Bucky thinks, a little triumphant. He wouldn’t _dare._  
   
“What happened? What is _wrong_ with you both, why couldn’t you just – “ Tony frowns, examines Ross’s neck. “Did you choke him?!” He asks, incredulously, “Did you fucking choke my alpha?”  
   
“No. Yes. Does it matter?” Steve asks, watching Ross slam the door behind him as he leaves. “You shouldn’t let him,” he begs. “You shouldn’t let him do that to you.”  
   
“I don’t _let_ him do anything,” Tony mutters, rubbing his neck. “Again with this, why do you always think I have a choice?” When there’s no answer, he sighs. “You shouldn’t have irritated him like that,” Tony says quietly. “You can’t blame him for responding.”  
   
Steve looks so sad. “Tony, you don’t mean that.”  
   
“I do. I’m his, whether you like it or not, and – “  
   
“You’re not his. You know it, he knows it, _I_ know it. In name only, Tony, you’ve never belonged to anyone.”  
   
“I was supposed to belong to you,” he snaps. “I was happy to belong to you.”  
   
Steve stops himself. “Not now. Or here. Natasha – she had this idea. That you would go for your appointments together, and we could meet then, in secret. She can be our intermediary, and – I can explain, maybe. Or try to. Or at least – just see you.” Steve lovingly stretches out his hand to stroke Tony’s cheekbone, and Tony bats his hand away.  
   
“Don’t,” he says shortly.  
   
“I love you,” Steve says quietly, urgently. He takes Tony’s hand, although it lies limply in-between Steve’s. “I promise, I’ll explain. All of this – you have to believe me – “  
   
“I do,” Tony says, irritated. “I do believe you. I believe everything you’ve told me, about the letters, about how much you love me, that’s not the point. The point is you left, and now I’m here, and – pretty words don’t change it.” Tony takes back his hand. “I’m being practical,” he says bluntly. “I’ll meet you. Don’t expect the world.”  
   
“I don’t,” Steve swears. “I really, really don’t. Just – could I hug you, even? Just quickly?”  
   
“You can’t,” he says flatly, “he’ll smell you on me.”  
   
So Steve recoils. “Next week,” he promises.  
   
“I have heat next week. It’ll have to be after.”  
   
Steve swallows, like the thought pains him. “Two weeks,” he swears, regardless.  
   
Tony nods, briefly. “Natasha will be in touch. John organises my appointments, you’ll have to do it through him.”  
   
Steve holds out his hand against, like he wants to touch Tony. Not necessarily on the cheek, or neck, but just – touch him. Feel him, however brief. Tony looks away, though. In fact, he turns, and leaves them in the dining room to find their own way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ta da.
> 
> I'm loving the discussions going on in the comments! Honestly they're so interesting to read!! i like hearing what y'all have to say, and it's honestly the greatest motivation.


	10. Chapter 10

There’s a pit in Steve’s stomach.  
   
“He’s in the bedroom,” Natasha is telling him calmly, flattening down his collar and brushing off imaginary lint. “Be sweet, don’t get worked up. You have more to prove, understand?”  
   
“I know,” Steve says impatiently, “I know. Just – I need to see him, now.”  
   
“Don’t expect the world. He’s had it rough, rougher than you. He’s angry,” Natasha says pointedly. “Don’t give him a reason to believe what Ross has told him.”  
   
“I won’t,” Steve assures, because he won’t, he really won’t. He’ll beg, if that’s what it takes.  
   
“Step back,” Natasha warns, and then she’s spraying him down with something – ugh. Sharp, artificial, Steve coughs and covers his nose.  
   
“What is that?” He gasps, eyes watering. “God, that’s – potent.”  
   
“It’ll neutralise you. Can have him smell of your scent when he goes home. Keep your distance, at least three feet at all times. _Don’t touch him._ If you touch him, I’m taking you out, for his sake. We don’t know what Ross will do if he catches an idea about what’s going on.”  
   
“I know,” Steve swallows. “Thank you. For this, I mean. For – sorting this, for us.”  
   
“You’re welcome,” Natasha says, betraying nothing. “Are you ready? Are you calm?”  
   
Steve nods, smoothing his hair flat against his head.  
   
“Okay,” Natasha says, hand on the door. “This is it. You have one hour.”  
   
   
Steve scents him.  
   
Almost unrecognisable, but not quite. Stress, tangy and iron-tasting, rancid in his nostrils, mixed with the hot sweeps of _angerangeranger._ Not pure anger – words won’t translate the scent directly, but it’s something… frustration, almost. Anger-frustration. A tricky emotion to pin down.  
   
When Steve had taken Tony for the first time, he had smelt only of Stane. It’s hard for other alphas, alphas with a lesser nose, but Steve can pick up on scents going back months, going back a year. Hypothetically, an omega that lies with one alpha will smell of that alpha, period. There are exceptions – Natasha, for example, always seem to smell like a mix of them from the close proximity. But on the whole, Tony’s always been one-scent. Stane, then Steve. No exceptions.  
   
Stane is barely there anymore, something you can only pick up on and then wonder if you ever smelt it at all, but still irritatingly present, after all these years, imbedded so deep he’ll probably never leave. Steve is… thin. He’s there, somewhere, but he’s buried, God is he buried, under something – ugh. Cigar smoke, almost. Cigar and sweat and whiskey. That’s not Ross’s scent, who the hell is that? Ross is the most prevalent, something oaky and old, varnish and smoke, and he’s cloying, clogging Steve’s nose. There’s no mistaking who has Tony now.  
   
His hair is wet, as if he’s just fresh from the shower. He playing with a menu, slapping it against his hand, bending it back and forth, eyes tight, mouth set in a line.  
   
He’s gorgeous.  
   
Without Ross, in the dark gloom of that house, he is everything Steve remembers. Fresh, and open. Even now, even after everything, his guard is down with Steve. He doesn’t hold that same rigidness, the stress and worry under his skin, like he does in Ross’s house. Even now, he knows he doesn’t have to trick, or manipulate, or stick himself on edge. He can at least be honest. “I wrote you,” he begins, because he needs to make this clear, needs to get it out in the open before the accusations start to fly --  
   
“Ah, so here he is,” Tony interrupts. “The love of my life. My captain, oh my captain, back home at last. Whatever the fuck shall I do? Should I swoon into your open arms?”  
   
Steve opens his mouth, and shuts it again. “I wrote to you,” he repeats, because it’s the best thing he can think of. “I wrote to you, I swear I wrote to you, I tried calling you, and texting you, you said – I _thought_ you were replying, you told me not to write so often because you thought you were being watched, and so I was more careful. But that’s it. I promise, Tony, I swear. I didn’t leave you. I never forgot you.”  
   
Tony examines him casually. “Sure,” he says easily, sliding to his feet with an easy grace. “I’m sure you did.”  
   
Steve doesn’t like that voice, like Tony is agreeing to disagree. “I _did.”_  
   
“Okay,” he replies, levelly, simply. “I believe you.”  
   
“No you don’t.”  
   
“Steve – “ Tony makes a weary noise, a sort of ‘ach’ in the back of his throat, “what do you want me to say, Steve? Yes, I believe you wrote to me. I believe that.”  
   
“Good,” Steve huffs, “thank you. That’s all I – “  
   
“I don’t know who stopped me from reaching the letters, but that’s not important. And I don’t know how you didn’t realise it wasn’t – “  
   
“Not important? Tony – Ross. You know it was Ross, right? You know that?”  
   
“Maybe it was,” Tony continues, “maybe it wasn’t. Maybe – “  
   
“Tony, it was Ross.”  
   
“He says it isn’t him.”  
   
“Really?” Steve says, amazed, sardonic. “He really says that? Well, if that’s the case, it must be true, right?”  
   
Tony frowns, stands. “Stop that,” he mutters. “I thought we were going to be civil.” He turns his back, helps himself to some spritzer from the minibar.  
   
“You know what he wanted from me, Tony? When he took me to his office?”  
   
“To discuss the new terms of our – “  
   
“No, Tony. He asked me to run for President. And he asked me to make him his VP.”  
   
Tony slams shut the fridge door, spins. “ _What?!”_  
   
“He said – if I didn’t, if I put up a fight, he would send you away. Or take away your license. That show, the whole thing at the table with the sitting on his lap, it was because – “  
   
“A powerplay, I know that, I expected it. I don’t care, tell me about what he asked you.”  
   
“He told me,” Steve says slowly, “that Warren tried to have you – attacked.”  
   
“Because I told him to suck a fat one, yeah.”  
   
Momentarily shocked, Steve snorts. “Really?”  
   
Tony waves a hand. “It was a whole thing. Keep going.”  
   
“He said I could get back at Warren if I – became President. Because I was the only one who could stop him in the primaries.”  
   
“Could you just kill him?”  
   
“That’s what I said! Ross didn’t seem to think it was a good idea.”  
   
“You’re not going to run, are you?”  
   
“Of course not.” A beat. “To… to try and convince me, he offered up your first-born omega. Said it would be like having a mini-you.”  
   
Tony laughs. “That’s so Ross. Fucking idiot. There won’t be a first-born omega, I’ve been taking birth control since the beginning. Although he’s starting to wonder why I haven’t conceived yet.”  
   
“What will you do?”  
   
Tony shrugs. “I might have to have one, I don’t know yet. I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”  
   
“Don’t,” Steve croaks. “Don’t – don’t have his children.”  
   
“Steve,” Tony begins, with that crooked, cruel smile. “You seem to think I – “  
   
“Have a choice about anything, I know, you’ve said that. I’m giving you a choice, though. You can leave with me, tonight.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “I can’t.”  
   
“Why not?” Steve asks plaintively. “But why not?”  
   
Tony screws up his brow, shuts his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he mutters, turning back to the bar. “You just don’t get it.”  
   
“But _explain,”_ Steve begs. “You have to help me understand, Tony, you know what I’m like. Please.”  
   
Tony pulls out a bottle of wine and helps himself to a tall glass. “Do you want some?” He asks. “We can’t sit outside, but the couch looks comfy.”  
   
He’s ignored the question altogether.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Steve croaks.  
   
“What was that?” Tony asks, busying himself with some glasses. He wants to hear it again.  
   
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”  
   
“For what?” Tony questions, mildly. He pours out the red.  
   
“Jesus, Tony, for – for everything. If I had ever known – “  
   
“No, specifically, what are you sorry for?” Tony turns, raises an eyebrow. “I’m curious, I want to know.”  
   
“I – “ he stumbles. “I’m sorry I left,” he says, helplessly.  
   
A beat. “Well don’t be,” Tony says, easily. “Here, this is yours.” He hands him the wine. “It’s not the leaving you should feel bad for, we had a deal, we had a plan. As much as I would like to blame you, it’s not your fault Ellis signed away my livelihood.”  
   
“If I had been here – “  
   
“But you weren’t. Sit.”  
   
Steve sits.  
   
“They wouldn’t have let you marry me anyway,” Tony dismisses. “They would have found some way to… get me.” It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything. He sits on the couch opposite Steve and sips, curls his legs up beneath him. “Should I put you out your misery? Should I let you know why I’m angry?”  
   
“I would appreciate it, Tony.”  
   
He sets his glass down on the table. “Let me work this through,” Tony says. “Ideologically, we had separate plans. You said you would compromise with me if I compromised with you. So we did. And I let you fly off with – “ Tony’s lips twist the word “ _—Barnes._ In return, when I had assured your pardon, you would support the Accords. It was win-win. I stopped getting your letters – “  
   
“They were intercepted. By Ross, or someone, _I swear.”_  
   
“Don’t interrupt me. I stopped getting your letters, and I’m left wondering – hold on a second, why, oh why, did my alpha choose his long lost buddy over me in the first place?”  
   
Steve’s face is pained. “Please, Tony, we’ve – “  
   
“Do you fuck him?” Tony blurts sudden, unrestrained. “Do you? _Do you_? I know you do. I _saw,_ I see you. Natasha said you don’t, but she’s lying, isn’t she? Do you – “ Tony’s voice goes frail. “Do you love him? Be honest with me. I don’t want to waste any more time – “  
   
“I don’t fuck him. I never have, please, Tony.”  
   
“But do you love him?” Tony asks triumphantly, like he’s caught Steve out. “You didn’t answer me, do you love him? Do you really, really love him?”  
   
“Of course I love him,” Steve says, calmly.  
   
Tony’s face falls, he looks like he’s going to be sick, his scent turns into something mortifying, desperate. “I knew it,” he chatters, putting down his wine. “I knew it, I knew it, God, I knew it, I – “ Tony sucks in a breath, exhales. Calms himself. “Okay,” he says. “If you want… to be with him, that’s okay, I – can accept it, I can live with it. I could talk to lawyers, we could be a three, I – obviously it’s not ideal, but if you still wanted me – “  
   
“I love you more, Tony.”  
   
“I – what do you mean?”  
   
“We agreed to separate, so I would have a chance to save his life. You sacrificed that for me, Tony. Had Ellis not pushed through legislation, I would be back, and we would probably be married. I left you for Bucky because – fuck, because I didn’t need to _worry_ about you. What reason did we have to worry? You can look after yourself, it’s – patronising, disgusting that anyone would even think I needed to be here to, what, hold your hand, keep all the nasty alphas away. You do that yourself, you always have. Haven’t you?”  
   
“I have,” Tony agrees. “I do.”  
   
“So we miscalculated, _I_ miscalculated. You did what you had to do to survive. If I had known what was coming, I wouldn’t have left. It would have killed me,” Steve admits, “it would have – torn strips from my heart. But I would have had to revaluate. And Bucky…” Steve feels his scent go foggy, distant. “I’ve lived without him. He could have been put in a hospital, I guess. I don’t know. I – wouldn’t have left, if I had known. I would have married you on the spot.”  
   
“No use talking about that now,” Tony says quietly. “Till death do we part, Steve. Ross will never grant me a divorce.”  
   
“He might. If you give him something he wants.”  
   
“I have nothing he wants, short of everything he already owns that belongs to me.”  
   
“We could kill him,” Steve says, seriously.  
   
Tony looks up. “I don’t want him dead, Steve. He – I know this is hard for you to believe, but he has been good to me. And he’s annoying, irritating, a bit – egotistical, and lacking the full spectrum of human emotion, but he has been kind enough, and never hurt me – “  
   
“Seemed like he hurt you at the table. You asked him to stop, he kept going. I don’t like that.”  
   
Tony smiles, sarcastic. “Sweetie, not everyone is as tolerant as you.”  
   
“They should be. Where I’m from, we don’t molest omegas in front of guests for kicks.”  
   
“We were born in the same city, idiot.”  
   
“Different times, different – classes. If you’d been born to some no one on the street, imagine what you could have achieved.”  
   
Tony scent goes a little sad, a little whimsical. “I wish I had been born beta,” he mutters. “Not even alpha. I want to wash my hands of all of this, all the stupidity that comes with it. Why couldn’t I have been born beta? Would that have been so hard?”  
   
“There are places where being omega isn’t a – “ Steve tries to think of the right word, “burden. In Wakanda, they – “  
   
“But we don’t live in Wakanda,” Tony snaps. “We live in America. We inhabit a world where an alpha I don’t love can pledge away my first born child to a man he doesn’t like in order to cement a political alliance. _That’s_ the world we inhabit. Fucking hell, I hope I don’t ever bear omegas. I hope they’re all alpha. Alpha and male, and then I don’t need to worry.”  
   
“You don’t mean that.”  
   
“I do,” Tony insists. “What use is an omega? I’m just going to marry if off at sixteen anyway, doesn’t matter how clever they are. And you give your life to a kid that leaves you as soon as it starts heating and becomes another person’s plaything. Give me alphas. The less omegas the better. Let’s stop this cycle, root us out.”  
   
Tony can just _be_ like this sometimes. It’s a mix of stubbornness and traditionalism; Tony is regurgitating old-fashioned ideas about omegas, but you’re not allowed to point that out, or he’ll snap at you. “I would love our children if they were omega,” Steve says, simply. “It would never occur to me not to.”  
   
“I didn’t say – “ Tony shoots him an irritated look. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t _love_ it. At this point, I’d accept any child if I was so lucky.”  
   
“Just that you didn’t want one.”  
   
“Yes! Because we live in a fucked up world, Steve. I like to limit suffering, understand?”  
   
It’s better not to argue with stubbornness. Steve will never change Tony’s mind. “Ross isn’t good to you,” he continues on. “If you think he’s being good to you, it’s because – your vision is skewed.”  
   
 _“My_ vision is skewed?”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve says simply. “I know, it happens. Time goes by, you forget why you were ever mad in the first place. But Tony, he was the one who got Ellis to push through legislation – “  
   
“You don’t know that.”  
   
“And he was the one who intercepted my letters. He was the one who married you, even though you didn’t want to be married. He – isolates you, he – “  
   
“You don’t know that.”  
   
“I don’t _know_ why you’re defending him.”  
   
“I’m not defending him.”  
   
“You are!” Steve stops, collects himself. “I know,” he says, tactfully, “when you’re put in a stressful position you have a habit of – “  
   
“ _What?”_ Tony asks, viciously. “Go on, spit it out.”  
   
“Sometimes – you wouldn’t even notice you’re doing it, but you can – you know. You’re so good at pretending, I think sometimes you forget it’s not real.”  
   
It’s a survival mechanism, Steve knows. Omegas get moved around a lot. Once, a successful challenge from a rival alpha would mean a whole new family, a whole new pack. Omegas need to be – flexible. Tony takes it a step further. He’s so good at pretending to be something he’s not, there are times –  
   
There are times Steve has wondered whether the Tony he loves is really Tony at all. If it’s not all some survival instinct. If the real Tony from Stark died somewhere before his 17th birthday and is so buried there’s no getting him back. Latch yourself on to the biggest, strongest alpha, be what pleases him. Steve doesn’t forget their first times together in bed, when Tony would try everything, switch personalities from dominant to submissive to bratty to sweet, trying to find what Steve liked best. Steve still doesn’t know _what_ Tony likes. There’s so much he still doesn’t know about Tony at all.  
   
“This isn’t some kind of – Stockholm syndrome, if that’s what you’re talking about.”  
   
“Stockholm syndrome doesn’t just mean falling desperately in love with your captor, Tones. It means – sympathising with them, maybe. Changing yourself to please them. Forgetting that they were the ones who took you in the first place.”  
   
Tony looks away. “I haven’t forgotten,” he says, tightly.  
   
“I don’t want to upset you,” Steve says gently, “I just don’t want you thinking – “  
   
“Are you jealous? Is that is? Are you jealous of him?”  
   
Steve frowns. “Of course I’m jealous,” he says, because it’s true. “He has you and I don’t, why wouldn’t I be jealous?”  
   
Tony leans forward on the couch. “No,” he says, “I don’t mean like that. I mean, are you _really_ jealous? That I’m defending him? Does it make you burn inside? Or feel sick? Does it make you want to – claw out your eyes to stop you seeing it? Does it?”  
   
“If I thought you loved him, it might.”  
   
“Good,” Tony snarls. “So now you know what it feels like.”  
   
“I didn’t marry Bucky, Tony,” Steve says slowly, deliberately, treading on a minefield. Tony is so frighteningly possessive; it’s what happens when you’re never really ever allowed to _own_ something in your own right. It’s an anxiety for him, if he snarls the loudest, digs in his claws, he’ll hold onto you for dear life. Even with Stane – Natasha told Steve she had slept with him once when they thought _he_ was the Iron Man. For all that Tony despised him, he despised Natasha for what she’d done, because she had _stolen_ from him.  
   
That, and from what Steve has gathered from all the miniscule hints Tony has dropped, Stane would throw it in his face often. He would use it as a gauge of Tony’s perceived inadequacies. Tell him he was lesser for being unable to keep Stane loyal.  
   
Which has to screw a person up, Steve knows. For all Tony likes to pretend Stane was nothing to him, that their twenty-odd years together were a blip, it _has_ to screw you up, twist your perceptions. Certainly, it would make you see the worst in people, especially alphas. But to have that on your shoulder for fifteen, twenty years… it has to grind you down eventually. So Steve doesn’t take it personally, not really, when Tony mistrusts him. It hurts, sure. But he doesn’t take it personally.  
   
“You might of well have,” he blurts, and then his face shutters off. He pauses, licks his lips, sips his wine. “I’m sorry,” he says, stiffly. “It’s been a really long – year. I’m very stressed out.”  
   
“It’s alright,” Steve says quietly. “You shaved your beard,” he starts again. “I loved your beard.”  
   
“Ross doesn’t.”  
   
“I see. But he’s been good to you, right?”  
   
Tony glares at him, sharp. “He’s allowed to have preferences. It doesn’t make him evil. And yes, he has been good to me. He doesn’t beat me, he doesn’t shout at me. I get a garage, I get suits, I get cars. I get access to whatever I want, he lets me come and go as I please, I know this is an inconvenient truth to you because it doesn’t fit with your _narrative,”_ Tony sneers, “but he has been _good_ to me. And he’s been _there,_ which at the very least, is more than you.”  
   
“I thought we were making progress.”  
   
Tony’s face is pained, quickly. “We were,” he says, “we are. Sorry, I – I let my bitterness get the better of me.”  
   
“I would rather you were honest.”  
   
“Honest?”  
   
“Yeah. I would rather you just – told me what you thought. What’s really on your mind.”  
   
   
   
“I wasn’t – happy,” Tony begins, awkwardly, “until I met you. Not that – you’re that special, because you’re not.”  
   
“Thanks, Tony.”  
   
“Well you’re not,” Tony snaps. “But you were kind to me. And – I know we fought, at the start, but you always – I kept, at the beginning,” Tony smiles slightly to remember it, “I kept expecting you to turn around and smash my face against the wall.”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve says, remembering that stage in their relationship a lot less fondly. “I can recall.” Tony wouldn’t finish arguments, back then. Steve would get heated, because that’s what _happens_ when you fight with someone, and Tony would – back off. Capitulate, either with words, or with sex. Steve didn’t realise he wasn’t really winning the arguments, and Tony wasn’t really agreeing with him, until one day he spun to say something, retort, and Tony had flinched with his whole body, hands held out in front of his face.  
   
“But you never did! Man, do you know what that’s like? I could say _anything_ to you! And you never, ever, hurt me back. I was, quite frankly, _astounded,”_ Tony grins, and again, Steve doesn’t see the humour, “because, remember, I’d only even had one alpha. And as far I was concerned – in the world I inhabited – “ Tony’s scent drops into sadness, and it shows. He tucks his legs up underneath him on the couch, crosses his arms. “I just felt lucky,” he finishes, quietly. “I felt like the luckiest omega alive. I thought – well, I had a bad run. But Steve makes it worth it.”  
   
Steve wants to reach across and smooth his palm across his neck until he’s only smiling and the brittle, nasty smell the pervades him seeps into something soft and quiet, happy and soothed. “You still have me,” he says, pathetic as it is.  
   
“It didn’t feel that way, when you left with Barnes. And even though I _know_ it was our – best choice, back then, I’m – hey, I’m a jaggy bitch,” Tony says weakly, trying to laugh. “You know what I’m like. I’m irrational, right? I’m – stupid, sometimes. You were mine,” he says firmly, “I was so sure of it, I felt so sure that – I had found someone. And then, what happened, happened. I should have just gone with you,” Tony mutters, “the Accords don’t matter, they never mattered – “  
   
“No,” Steve says, “no, Tony, you should never, ever change your mind just because I want – “  
   
“What _I_ wanted,” Tony interrupts, “was for you to sign to Accords, live with me, give me some children and let me have a happy life. What did you want?”  
   
“I don’t – what?”  
   
“What did you want? What was your ultimate goal, when you started this?” Tony’s eyes have taken on a certain longing, not quite desperation. His answer matters now, Steve realises. What he says next matters.  
   
“I wanted a review system separate from the government. I wanted to marry you. I wanted to start a family with you. I wanted Bucky to be safe, I wanted _all_ of us to be safe. I did what I thought was right, and I was willing to put my plans on hold while we worked through our agreement.”  
   
“Our plans.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Not your plans, our plans.”  
   
“Tony, you were the one who suggested I go to Wakanda. _You_ were the one who told me to _leave –_ “  
   
“Because I didn’t think you would!” Tony snaps viciously. “I didn’t think you would _actually_ leave me, _me!_ Your _omega!_ For an _alpha!_ Jesus – do you know how _humiliating_ that is? Do you know what people said? What they said about me? They all think I’m pathetic, that I can’t hold down an alpha at all, there’s something wrong with me, they say there must be, that I chase all my alphas into someone else’s arms. That my alpha became a _fugitive_ rather than settle with me – “  
   
“Is that it?” Steve asks, confused. “Is that what’s made you so distressed? What other people think?”  
   
“Yes! No! Obviously, I’m – devastated that you left, mainly.” Tony is defensive, crossing his arms.  
   
“Tony, if you tell me something is okay, or if you suggest something to me, I will not and cannot pick up on your hidden signals. I – Tony, sweetheart, look at me,” Steve says urgently. “If you didn’t want me to leave, you should have said, ‘I don’t want you to leave’. Please, I can’t tell when you’re – “  
   
“You would have left anyway,” Tony mumbles. “You would have left, but you would have hated me for trying to stop you. I know how this goes.”  
   
“No, Tony, we would have found another way, but if you – _you_ were the one who told me – “  
   
It’s things like this. Sometimes the miscommunications are small, other times they’re colossal.  
   
“Oh, so it’s all _my_ fault,” Tony drawls, going on the offensive, “it’s my fault that you wanted to choose someone else over me – “  
   
“Tony, I love him! If you had told me no, I would have understood, and I would have – figured something out, but you _didn’t,_ you told me to go! What was I supposed to think? Tell me, what did you want me to do?!”  
   
“To – stay, anyway,” and Tony must realise how awful it sounds, because he ducks his head, presses his chin to his shoulder to bare the line of his neck, all his limbs tucked in tight and scenting _shameshameshame._  
   
“Oh – sweetheart,” Steve croaks, reaching out his hand. “It’s not – don’t do that. I’m sorry, don’t – “ _is he manipulating me? Is this real? Fuck, I can never tell._  
   
“Stop,” Tony huffs out. “It’s okay, I’m – sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just when you put it like that – “  
   
“I’m not blaming you,” Steve says quickly. “I’m just saying – there are issues, issues we never really addressed – “  
   
“And I’m so bad at communicating sometimes that – “  
   
“Yes! That’s what I’m trying to say, there’s been a miscommunication – “  
   
“If I would just stop expecting everyone to know the minutiae of every little thought crossing my head – “  
   
“Don’t be hard on yourself, Tony, it’s not like – “  
   
“No but it’s true,” Tony says tiredly. “I forget not everyone overthinks everything. You’re so – simple. It’s what I love about you.”  
   
 _HELOVESME!!! HELOVESME!! YESHEDOESYESHEDOES!!!_ Blood rushing to Steve’s ears, he sort of misses the next part. “What?” He manages, distracted. _He loves me! He just said, he still loves me!_  
   
Tony smiles. “I said, everything is so straightforward with you. If you say yes you mean yes, and if you say no you mean no.”  
   
“What’s he really like?” Steve asks. “Ross. I mean – other than being an asshole.”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “He’s nice enough. Pretty much always in a bad mood. He’s clever. He’s…” Tony runs out of things to say. “He is what he is.”  
   
“And the heats.” Steve tries he best to keep his voice casual. “What are they like? Is he…”  
   
“He does what he needs to do to get a child on me. That’s about it. We don’t even share a bed.”  
   
A relief. A bigger relief that Steve wants to admit. “And you’re sure – the birth control, it’ll – “  
   
“I’ll need more soon.”  
   
“I’ll get you some,” Steve swears. “I give it to you next time.”  
   
“Maybe – maybe next time, Natasha and I can book an overnight stay,” Tony says, eyes flicking to meet Steve’s. “Not for sex,” he adds hastily, “just so we can talk more. And maybe I’ll be able to touch you,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the longing in his voice.  
   
It’s too soon. Steve still has so much he wants to say. “Wait, I – “ he shakes his head. “Hold on. Talk to me, about something. Anything.”  
   
Tony smiles, that smile he has where you’re not sure if he’s mocking you or not. “What do you want to talk about?”  
   
“Other than this, everything that’s happened – are you well?”  
   
Tony goes slightly brittle, his smile frozen in place. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m resilient, you know that.”  
   
“But are you – “  
   
“How’s Barnes?”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
“Barnes. At the dinner party, he was… off.”  
   
“He’s – awkward with new people, is all. He’s fine with us. I mean – when he’s comfortable. He’s fine.”  
   
“He’s very – “ Steve knows what Tony wants to say, he can tell because he’s got that face he gets when he’s trying not to be rude. “You know, he’s very – “ Tony hunches his shoulders slightly, as if that will articulate what he wants to say.  
   
“Not dominant?” Steve supplies.  
   
“Right! Yes. Thank you. Which isn’t a problem,” Tony adds quickly. “I know lots of alphas who – take it easy. I just always expected – “  
   
“He’s always been like that.”  
   
“Really?!”  
   
Steve shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah. I mean – not as nervous. And he could meet your eye, back then, but…”  
   
“He’s just – not a prime,” Tony says.  
   
“You know, I know how you feel about pack dynamics, but once upon a time – “  
   
“Spare me.”  
   
“ – he would have played an important role. Protector, you know? Close to the prime’s side – “  
   
“That would be you.”  
   
“ – and non-dominant, so he wouldn’t pose a threat. But still alpha, still with all those instincts, maybe mating a lower omega, maybe mating with the prime – “  
   
“Oh, so that’s it. You’re trying to hint at a big threeway between – “  
   
“What? No! No, Tony, that definitely isn’t what – “  
   
“It’s okay. I know what you like.”  
   
“Tony! Would you just – listen to me?” What he wants to say is _stop interrupting,_ but he knows how that would come across. The more Tony stops him from talking, the worse impression he seems to get. “I was just trying to tell you – _explain_ to you – that Bucky’s disposition is normal. I know in your world, alphas have to be big and bold and brash, but it’s alright for them not to be.”  
   
“I know it’s alright. Just because I have a type doesn’t mean I don’t get that.” Tony sniffs, looks away. Defensive.  
   
“I was just saying. Sometimes people are the way they are for a reason.”  
   
“And what about me?”  
   
“You’re supposed to be a leader. Head of a pack.”  
   
“Like the Bitch.”  
   
“Yeah, I mean, that’s a not-so-nice way of putting it, but some people would call you a pack bitch – “  
   
“No, I mean _the_ Bitch. Mary of Warren.”  
   
“I don’t – know who that is.”  
   
Tony waves a hand. “Warren’s first wife. She’s everything that’s wrong with world.”  
   
“You wouldn’t have to be.”  
   
“Well I know _that._ I just meant – she’s a real piece of work, is all. But a pack bitch, no doubt about it, it’s obvious that’s how she gets her rocks off.”  
   
“Not all packs have to be steeped in religious – fundamentalism.”  
   
“These days, they just happen to be.”  
   
“Not really. You get other packs. They keep quiet about it, but a lot of middle class families like the model. It makes sense financially, socially. You get the kids raised well, lots of support to fall back on. It’s not crazy, Tony.”  
   
“I don’t like it,” Tony says stubbornly.  
   
“I know you don’t,” Steve sighs, because when Tony’s got a fixed opinion, it stays that way, and nothing you say will change his mind.  
   
“There’s this boy,” Tony says, suddenly reserved. His eyes flick up to Steve, then back down. That means he’s uncomfortable. Steve has learnt all of Tony’s tics, right down to the way he bites his nails when nervous. “Nick of Warren. He’s – Warren’s second, I think.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“He’s only – I don’t know. Twenty-something. His family – his _pack._ He ran away from home, worked jobs so he could save enough to finance – community college, I think. Wanted to work at pre-school. When the bill went through, he needed a license but his _pack,”_ Tony spits the word, “wouldn’t grant him one, unless he married. Now, Nick had been working some in an unsavoury business, if you know what I mean. Warren frequented his services, knocked him up. So his family bound him to Warren. At twenty. A man – forty years his senior, with nine kids already, and a fifty-year-old wife.”  
   
 Tony hadn’t been much younger when _he_ was bound to a man with a similar age gap. Not quite as big, but still. Big enough for it to feel disgusting. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Steve says evenly, not wanting to provoke an upset.  
   
“And so now he’s pregnant. He’s never going to teach kids pre-school. The best he can hope for is that he delivers an alpha, preferably a son, so at least Warren will go easy on him. If not, he’ll be a dogsbody for the rest of the family till the day he dies.” Tony looks away, sharp, then back at Steve. “And they’ve done something to him,” he says, voice trembling for the first time. “I don’t know what. I’m – scared they might do it to me, too.”  
   
Steve sits up. “What do you mean?”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “I don’t know. They’ve just – _done_ something. I met him the day he was married, and he was – a bit reserved, a little nervous, but that’s fine considering he was newly-wed. A few weeks later… it’s like the lights are on but no one’s home.”  
   
“Tony, it sounds like he’s a had a rough life. You don’t know what’s going on behind closed – “  
   
“But it’s not just him. Edward, he used to be my – friend. They’ve taken him away.”  
   
“Away?”  
   
“Away,” Tony repeats, irritated that Steve doesn’t seem to just _get_ it. “Away, away.”  
   
“I don’t – please don’t be so vague.”  
   
Tony huffs. “There are camps. Or – spas. Facilities, I don’t know what to call them. Private prisons.”  
   
“I’ve never heard of them.”  
   
Tony winces. “Yeah,” he says, “neither had I, really. Not until recently. I mean, I _knew_ they existed, but only for – nutjobs, you know? Who send their omegas away if they’re a bit bratty, if like to play with other omegas, if they have a mouth. But right now, being a nutjob is in fashion.”  
   
“Would Ross do that? Send you away?”  
   
“I don’t think so,” Tony says uneasily. “I – I think he’s fond of me?”  
   
“But you don’t sound sure.”  
   
“Because I don’t know! Not really. I – “  
   
“Times up.”  
   
Natasha, standing in the door, arms crossed. “I’m sorry,” she says bluntly. “We can’t give him any reason to expect.”  
   
“Five more minutes,” Steve begs. “We’re just – “  
   
“It’s alright,” Tony says wearily. “I don’t know what I want to say either. I don’t know – what I’m trying to accuse him of.”  
   
“What?” Natasha asks, brow furrowing. She makes her way over to the couch and sits on Tony’s armrest, one arm slung casually over his shoulder. “What’s this we’re discussing?”  
   
“Facilities,” Tony says immediately, and Steve tries not to feel jealous that he is already so at home with Natasha. “Omega facilities.”  
   
“Like – training facilities?”  
   
“Is that what they’re calling them?”  
   
“Re-education,” Natasha supplies, clicking her fingers. “I know what you’re talking about. Re-education centres.”  
   
“That doesn’t sound ominous,” Steve mutters.  
   
“We were just talking about how prevalent they are. You know. For naughty Os who talk back, and love other omegas.”  
   
Natasha quickly removes her hand from Tony’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t know,” she says. “I mean – I don’t know anything about them. I haven’t heard much.”  
   
“Neither had Tony until recently,” Steve says.  
   
“They’re all the rage nowadays,” he adds.  
   
“Please don’t get yourself sent to one of those, Tony.”  
   
“It’s not really a choice on my behalf, Natasha.”  
   
“I know,” she smiles down at him, “but you have a habit of getting yourself in trouble.” She winds a finger round a lock of his hair; it’s almost down to his nape. “This needs a cut.”  
   
“Ross likes it long.”  
   
“I’m sure Ross likes a lot of things,” Natasha sighs, “but maybe you shouldn’t mention it front of Steve,” she says conspiratorially, “because you’re making him jealous.”  
   
He hadn’t even realised he’d squared his shoulders. He forces himself back down to neutral, both of them smiling at him, a private joke an alpha can’t share. “I’m not jealous,” he lies, blatantly.  
   
Tony smiles, a real smile, unburdened, and laughs. “I missed – talking to people.”  
   
“Ross doesn’t let you talk to people?”  
   
“Oh, he does. Encourages it, actually, he thinks I’m a loner. But I’ve been – I wasn’t myself,” Tony says awkwardly. “For a while there. I wasn’t really – myself. But I’m better now,” he assures, “and I’m even better knowing that – you’re here. All of you,” he adds quickly, “but – you mostly, Steve.”  
   
“Thank you,” Steve says quietly, because words can’t begin to explain what that acceptance means.  
   
“Wow. I’m quite hurt, Tony.”  
   
“You’re a close second, Natasha.”  
   
“I want to be a long first, but okay. I guess I’ll settle.”  
   
“I need to go,” Tony sighs, “don’t I?”  
   
“Yeah, you do. But I’ll be here next week.” She’s gently stringing her fingers through Tony’s hair, and he tips up chin slightly. Steve wishes he could be that thoughtless with his touches. “Steve will be here too.”  
   
“That’s good,” Tony sighs, and Natasha scratches the back of his head. “Maybe then he’ll get to pet me too.”  
   
Natasha removes her hand, because anymore and Tony will give away something he doesn’t want to say. He blinks, bleary, shuts his eyes. “Maybe I could just nap now,” he says, sighing.  
   
“You can nap in the car on the way home.”  
   
“I think John knows. I mean, I think he suspects what we’re doing.”  
   
“Will he be a problem?” Steve asks, alarmed.  
   
“Don’t think so. He knows I take birth control, he’s never stopped me. And he didn’t tell Ross I used his office.”  
   
“So he can be trusted?” Natasha enquires.  
   
“I think it’s more of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ situation. I don’t want to push it.”  
   
“Up you get,” Natasha chides. “C’mon. He’ll still be here next week.”  
   
Tony stands. “I miss you Steve,” he admits, unguarded. “I really miss you.”  
   
Steve is choked, suddenly. “I miss you too.”  
   
“I really hope – “  
   
He doesn’t finish the thought. Instead he just sighs, brushes down his clothes. “I’ll see you next week,” he promises.  
   
“You too,” Steve croaks.  
   
And then he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be part of a bigger chapter but it got… too big.
> 
> Also I know some people don’t really like Steve, for lots of reasons, but he isn’t really a villain in this story. He loves Tony very much, and while he’s made mistakes, it’s not for lack of trying. I hope I've made him come across more sympathetic than he might have appeared from Tony's POV.
> 
> Bucky next chapter! Along with more plot. Comments are adored! Love love loving your discussions, they make my week.


	11. Chapter 11

Fuck, oh God. He didn’t mean. He hadn’t meant to. Steve had told him – head to the suite, and sit there. Wait for Tony, make sure no one else comes in, he’s sorry he’s late but please stall, do _not_ let Tony leave, please Buck, do this for me –  
   
The sun is in his hair. He looks so good in the sun. Young, healthy – snoozy and warm, curled like a cat on the couch.  
   
Somehow, it’s terrifying.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Bucky blurts, freezing. He feels like he’s stumbled upon something shockingly intimate. “I – I can go.”  
   
“No, wait,” Tony says. “It’s alright. Stay.”  
   
Bucky studies a spot on the wall uneasily. “I don’t want – to make you uncomfortable.”  
   
“I think I scare you more than you scare me,” Tony laughs gently.  
   
So Bucky looks up. “You don’t – I mean, you’re not – “  
   
“Angry? No, not with you. Not anymore. You – haven’t done anything wrong.”  
   
“I killed your parents.”  
   
“It wasn’t you,” Tony says simply, like it could ever be that simple. “And you make Steve happy. I like things that make Steve happy.”  
   
So Tony knows, then. He has the same goal as Bucky, above all else: make Steve happy. “He – he does find it hard, to be happy. Doesn’t he?” Bucky croaks, unable to meet Tony’s eye.  
   
“He does,” Tony agrees quietly, sitting up. “I think – you and I, we’re the same like that. We just want the best for him, don’t we?”  
   
“I do,” Bucky says. “And I’ll do whatever it takes.”  
   
Tony seems to study him for a while. “Can I ask a question? If it’s not too impolite?”  
   
“Go ahead.”  
   
“I – am supposed to want to make Steve happy. It’s in my nature. It’s in my breed. You though – why are you so loyal?”  
   
“Because he’s good.” It’s the only answer Bucky has ever needed. “He’s my friend, always. And he’s good. And – “ there’s something unsaid, that Tony recognises too, because he nods. _He’s vulnerable._ Because Steve is so good, there are times he can’t see the bad in people. And that’s when he gets hurt.  
   
“So he needs a protector,” Tony smiles, wryly. “Imagine that. My big ol’ Steve.”  
   
“Not – he can look after himself.”  
   
“I know that,” Tony says, climbing to his feet with an easy grace. “Do you want something to drink?”  
   
“I don’t drink.”  
   
“Not even water?” Tony teases. “It’s alright. I might take something a little stronger, though.”  
   
Bucky watches him pour, and then realises the silence has gone on too long. “You look – good,” he says. “Better.”  
   
“Better? Oh? Was I ugly before?”  
   
“No! No that’s not what I – “ Tony is mocking playfully, he realises, looking up at Bucky with an eyebrow raised. “Oh,” he says weakly, “I get it.”  
   
Tony pushes a glass of water into his hand. “So where is my Steve?” He asks. “Late?”  
   
“He got held up.”  
   
“Doing?”  
   
“We had some schoolkids at HQ. He couldn’t get away. He said he’ll be another hour.”  
   
Tony laughs. “Acceptable, I guess. Anything for the kids, right?”  
   
Bucky thinks Tony is joking, because his eyes are wrinkled and he smells sweet. “Right.” He agrees.  
   
“And how about you? How are you… adapting?” Tony looks him up and down, like he’s an interesting experiment. “Shall we sit?”  
   
 Bucky stumbles to the couch. “I’m okay,” he says, “I’m – you know, keeping busy.”  
   
“Good,” Tony says, swallowing his wine. “That’s good. You should have heard the way Steve was talking about you last week. You’d think the sun shone out your ass.” Tony freezes, seems to realise that he’s been rude. “Which I don’t mean in a bad way,” he adds hastily. “Just that – he seems to think you’re doing well.”  
   
“Steve sees the best in people.”  
   
“He sees the best in you.”  
   
“Yeah. Maybe.”  
   
Tony considers him for awhile, head tipped to the left like a curious puppy. “Can I scent you?” He asks eventually, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.  
   
Bucky’s mouth gapes. “You – really?”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, putting down his wine. “If you don’t mind?”  
   
“I – sure. Just – only if – “  
   
Tony has rolled up his sleeves and is clambering onto the couch, straddling Bucky’s thighs, a snuggly warm lapful. His big brown eyes are laughing, Bucky thinks, but then they dive down, snuffling along his neck, up to behind his ears where alpha scent glands are kept.  
   
“Steve,” Tony notes, like he’s making a record. Bucky is frozen as Tony noses at the gland, pokes it, and tentatively – _tentatively –_ licks. “Natasha.” He pulls back, frowns. “That’s – “  
   
“Don’t.”  
   
“Why do you smell like – “  
   
“ _Don’t.”_  
   
Tony scent goes sad. He sits up, staring at Bucky like maybe he’s seeing him for the first time. “I know that scent,” he says, “he tried to marry me, once.”  
   
“It was a long time ago.”  
   
“Was it?”  
   
Bucky shakes his head. “No. I’m not sure how long it went on for.”  
   
Tony stares, and stares, and stares. He looks – horrified. “I’m so sorry,” he blurts, pulling away, “if I had known – does Steve know?”  
   
“No. He doesn’t need to. It would only upset him. Pierce is dead now.”  
   
“It’s not right,” Tony says fiercely, “what he did to you.”  
   
“Other than the brainwashing?”  
   
“Yes, that, obviously. But – I can still _scent_ him, God, how many times – “  
   
“Don’t upset yourself on my behalf, Tony.”  
   
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Tony snaps. “I – I’m really sorry. I wouldn’t have – “ Tony tries to clamber away, and that nice playful scent is gone. “I wouldn’t have – “  
   
Bucky takes his wrist. “No, it’s alright,” he insists, then realises maybe Tony doesn’t _want_ to scent him anymore, and he shouldn’t force him for his own short-term enjoyment. “If it – disturbs you – “  
   
“Disturbs me?”  
   
“I know what happened to me, it – I can scent badly sometimes – “  
   
“No, Bucky, it disturbs me because he _hurt_ you – “  
   
“But you really shouldn’t worry. I don’t want to upset you, and look at me, now I’ve upset,” Bucky huffs, slapping his head. “I’m so – stupid, stupid, I shouldn’t have even let you, but you said, and – I haven’t been – “  
   
God he’s starting to embarrass himself. Tony’s looking at him like he’s – he’s some sort of freak, and he shouldn’t have let Tony smell Pierce on him, what kind alpha will Tony think he is, fucking hell, he gets one chance at being able to hold an omega – maybe even scent him back – and he _blows_ it, gets himself in a flap and – humiliates himself, always.  
   
“What kind of alpha lets – lets another alpha _do_ that to them – “  
   
“You didn’t let him,” Tony says. “And – and for the record, it’s common.”  
   
Bucky husks a laugh. “Yeah, right.”  
   
“No, I mean it. It’s – a common thing. Not – not _common_ common, but it’s a well-documented thing among – degenerates.”  
   
“Degenerates?”  
   
“I don’t know. Psychopaths. Alphas who like to… knot other alphas, as a dominance thing. Sorry,” Tony winces, “I don’t want to – “  
   
“No no, it’s fine,” Bucky tries to assure, because it doesn’t even bother him, really. He barely remembers it, the only thing he has to go by is Pierce’s scent, but that doesn’t mean much, he can tune it out. He’s definitely upset Tony though, and that’s not okay, because Steve will be so mad if Tony is a bad mood and it’s Bucky’s fault. “You can sit. If you like,” he adds quickly, because he doesn’t want to force him.  
   
But Tony’s scent is so sticky and hot and _badbad,_ now, Bucky feels awful. “That’s rape you know,” he says urgently, “it’s not just a nothing. I can’t imagine – it must hurt – “  
   
“I really don’t remember it,” Bucky says again. He’s stuck his foot in it. Tony is back by the wine, and he’s keeping his distance. Rightly so, because why would he ever want –  
   
“Do you want – to touch me?” Tony says, turning again. He’s got that pitying look in his eye. _He really is very kind,_ Bucky thinks, _I can see why Steve likes him._  
   
“I don’t want to upset you,” Bucky repeats.  
   
“You’re not. You won’t. I just – really can’t bear that smell. Now that I’ve got a whiff, it’s – very strong. No – no! Don’t go, just – “ Tony stops him from standing, rushing over and holding him with a gentle tap of the shoulder. “Do you want to scent me?” He offers. “It would help. Be nice, I could – get to know you – “  
   
Bucky would. God, would he love to scent Tony. To feel all that warmth – to feel an omega’s skin, the firm body, the light touch, run his fingers over Tony’s nape and snuffle at his neck. To touch an omega… for the longest time, he thought it would be forbidden forever.  
   
So he chokes. “Tony – I – “  
   
“Steve won’t mind,” he murmurs, almost – earnest? It’s cute. It’s not what he’s used to, from Tony. He’s used to smirks, pitying glances, sometimes cruel words. “He would want you to.”  
   
Maybe it’s a trick, or a joke  
   
“He would?”  
   
Tony grins. “Sure. He never shuts up about you, it would make him happy if he thought we were getting along. You’ve scented Natasha, I can smell it on you.” He settles himself back on his lap. “I’ll be honest,” he says, “I just – haven’t been touched nicely in a while. I was waiting for Steve, but you’ll do.”  
   
Ouch, that – sort of hurts, actually. Second best, as always. He’s used to the sting.  
   
Tony seems unaware of any offense caused. He nudges at Bucky’s chin with his nose, happy, but then his scent goes sad, awkward. “I’m sorry,” he says, “do you not – want me? It’s just it was always told that having an alpha scent you is a sure-fire way to cheer them up, and I guess if you’re happy Steve is happy, so – “  
   
“You’re the first – I don’t touch.”  
   
Tony’s brow wrinkles. “What?”  
   
Stupid Bucky, pathetic, stupid, can’t even make your words come out right. “You’re the first I’ve touched. Like this, like – on my lap and warm. Sorry,” Bucky chokes, “I’m embarrassing myself.”  
   
“You’re not,” Tony promises, leaning back. “I – “ he frowns, like Bucky’s a hard math equation, and huffs. It’s cute, it really is, and Bucky is taken off guard when Tony gently pushes a lank strand of hair behind his ear.  
   
“This can’t be allowed,” he says, disappointed. “Really, Barnes, has Steve not taken you to a hairdresser?”  
   
The touch, so small –  
   
He’s leaning into Tony’s hand.  
   
Tony jerks away, quick. _Too much,_ Bucky thinks guiltily. _Too much, and now you’ve definitely scared him away._  
  
He climbs off the couch, scenting like – mild panic, sadness, nothing too awful. “I won’t tell Steve,” he says, eyes looking at the floor. “About – what Pierce did. People do things to me, too, and – I don’t like telling him.”  
   
Finally, someone understands. “It just makes him sad,” Bucky agrees, “about things he can’t change.”  
   
“And he should be happy. We – work best when he’s happy.” Tony scent goes soft, gentle and flowing. “I love him so much when he’s happy, you know? It’s like – sunshine, with you always.”  
   
Bucky knows. He knows that all too well.  
   
   
Steve is late. He didn’t want to be late, it wasn’t planned, he’s somehow terrified that Tony will walk away in disgust as his abysmal time-keeping. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, barging into the suite. It’s Bucky, reading, sitting in the armchair.  
   
“He’s in the bedroom,” he comments, not tearing his eyes away from the page. “Said he wanted to lie down.”  
   
“Was he mad?”  
   
“Why don’t you ask him?”  
   
Tony isn’t sleeping. He’s doing some kind of yoga stretch on a mat, eyes focused, stretched out like a starfish, although he scrambles up when he sees him. “Steve!” He cries, “You’re here.”  
   
“I am. Sorry, I’m so sorry, I got caught up – “  
   
“I was just talking to Bucky,” Tony smiles. “He’s really – “  
   
“What?” Steve is maybe too quick, a little too defensive, because Tony looks a bit hurt.  
   
“I was just going to say he was nice. Nice, and – “ Tony’s sent goes – sad? Sickly? Hard to tell, just something _bad._  
   
“Did he say something to you? To upset you?”  
   
“What? No. No no, not at all, I just – he’s nice,” Tony finishes. “And you’re late.”  
   
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. There were kids, and I couldn’t get away – “  
   
“It’s fine, Steve,” Tony smiles. “You’re forgiven. I’m…” his eyes slide to the bed, “I don’t have to be home till tomorrow evening. If you want, we could…”  
   
“Make love?”  
   
Tony’s nose wrinkles. “I was gonna say cuddle. And who says ‘make love’ Steve, Jesus.”  
   
“I can cuddle!” Steve manages, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager. He would _love_ to. To just feel Tony in his arms, his scent at his nose, his pulse against his skin. “I can stroke you. Here, lie down – “  
   
“ _Slow_ down. We can talk first, can’t we? Room service, that’s what we need.”  
   
Room service sounds divine. Steve wasn’t going to mention it, but Tony has lost weight. His clothes hang loose, his collarbones sharply visible under his v-neck tee. Steve misses when Tony had weight, when he was soft, supple. Nowadays…  
   
“What you lookin’ at?” Tony smiles, sitting on the bed, menu in hand. _He’s so fucking gorgeous._  
   
Once, Steve would have crawled to Tony’s back, rested his chin on his shoulder, pressed hot kisses down his neck while he giggled, tried to talk into the phone. “Nothing,” Steve says absently, “just thinking.”  
   
Tony pats the space on the bed next to him, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear. “Hi, is that room service? Yeah I’d like to order one steak, medium rare with fries and – whatever beer you have. Thanks.” He’s twirling the cord round his finger, and for some reason it’s the most engrossing thing Steve has ever seen. “And also – what salads do you do? I’ll take a salad, please.”  
   
Steve wrinkles his nose, shakes his head. “Get a steak,” he whispers.  
   
“I won’t eat it.”  
   
“Then I’ll finish it.”  
   
Tony sighs. “And – sorry, and another steak, cooked medium, _no fries,”_ he says pointedly. “Drink? Oh, uh – diet coke I guess. And – and champagne. Your most expensive champagne.”  
   
“Won’t Ross notice if you splash out?” Steve asks.  
   
“No, because you’re paying.” Tony ‘boops’ his nose, lies back on the bed with his arms folded behind his head. It bares his belly slightly, mildly submissive, and Steve wants to bury his nose in his –  
   
“Besides,” Tony says lazily, shutting his eyes. “I’ve spent more on weirder things and he’s never asked, or noticed. I come and go as I please.”  
   
“Oh, he’s so gracious,” Steve rolls his eyes, “letting you spend your time as you please.”  
   
“Lose the attitude.”  
   
“Ross is not your hero.”  
   
“Neither are you,” Tony snaps.  
   
“I’m not trying to be. I’m not saying I am.”  
   
“I’ve been looking forward to this all week, could you not – ruin it?”  
   
Steve feels that a bit unfair. “I’m not ruining it. I’m just reminding you – “  
   
“You smell.”  
   
“Wow, thanks Tony.”  
   
“No, I mean – you _smell._ Like, the scent of you.” Tony bites his lip. “I wondered – all those months you in Wakanda, if not Bucky, there must have been… someone. Or something?”  
   
Steve frowns. “What?”  
“You must have – you couldn’t go all that time without – putting your dick in something,” Tony says awkwardly, “right?”  
   
Steve sighs with frustrations. “No,” he says, “I didn’t. I _haven’t._ ”  
   
Tony’s eyes widen. “Not even – I don’t know, some kind of – I don’t know, there must have been Os, right? Kings always have – “  
   
“I haven’t slept with anyone.”  
   
Tony is staring at him like – like he’s genuinely shocked. “It’s not cheating,” he says, “not with another O. Not like _that,_ for – biological necessity.”  
   
“I’ve been celibate before. I’ll do it again, as long as it takes us – as long as it takes for Ross to leave you.”  
   
Tony is shaking his head. “But – it’s unhealthy.” He seems remarkably distressed by the whole thing. “It’s not right that you didn’t – “ he sits up, slides to the floor, and starts pulling on Steve’s zip with determined focus.  
   
“Tony!”  
   
“Shut up. Let me do this.”  
   
“You – wait!” He pushes back Tony’s brow, big brown eyes staring up at him, mouth opened comically in an ‘O’, cock in hand. “You – what’s wrong with you?”  
   
“Would you just let me do this?” Tony asks impatiently. “Good God, man, you’re acting like you’ve never had your cock sucked in your life.”  
   
“You hate me,” Steve blurts, shaking his head. “I mean – you don’t want to do this for me. Why are you doing this for me?”  
   
“I want to suck you off.” Jesus, that’s – fucking. That’s – fucking. Arousing. That’s – Tony pressing kisses, so gentle, looking up at him from under lashes. “Please let me suck your cock, Steve.”  
   
He’s so desperate he feels like he’s choking, and now he’s hard to boot. “No,” he manages, “wait.”  
   
“Wait for what?” Tony rolls his eyes, exasperated. “I’m not getting any younger.”  
   
“Let me do you after.”  
   
“No. I don’t need to – ew. You know how I feel about that, Steve.”  
   
Tony hates oral sex. Steve doesn’t know why. His thoughts are too – hard, to delve deeper right now. “I’ll – finger you?” Steve pants as Tony breathes across his cock, sucks on the shaft. “Make it good.”  
   
“I don’t really want anything,” Tony says, maddeningly coherent. “Could you just enjoy this, please?”  
   
Something is bugging him, though. “You – you were angry when you thought I slept with Bucky but – wanted me to sleep with an omega?”  
   
“It’s different. Alphas sleep with omegas sometimes, it’s not the same.”  
   
“But when Natasha – “  
   
“I thought she was my friend, at the time. I had come to trust her. And she didn’t leave after. Normally, with Obie’s – I could turn the other cheek, because he wouldn’t bring them home, and the humiliation was kept to a minimum. Natasha hung around like a bad smell. No offence to her. Do you mind? I don’t really want to be talking.”  
   
Steve lets himself be enveloped in Tony’s mouth. He comes embarrassingly quick.  
   
Tony sits back on his heels, delicately wiping the sides of his mouth with his fingers. “Better?” He asks. “I need to wash up. Listen for room service.”  
   
Steve is –  
   
He might just lie here, instead.  
   
Tony comes back sometime later, smelling depressingly neutral, like – talcum and dishsoap. “What?” He asks, pushing his hair back on his head.  
   
“You’re upset,” Steve comments, mildly. “Why?”  
   
“I’m not.”  
   
“You are. And it’s because I didn’t fuck an omega. What’s that about, Tony?”  
   
Tony’s response is to straddle Steve’s hips. “I could give you a massage,” he purrs. “I could just – suck your cock, hold it for you. I’ll do it naked. I’ll let you touch my neck, I’ll let you  finger me. What do you like, baby, tell me and I’ll do it.”  
   
He tries to stroke Steve’s cheek, and Steve catches his wrist. “No.” He says firmly. “You’re angry. Upset. Because I was faithful? No, that can’t be it. The only reason you would be angry _I_ was faithful is if – “ Steve pauses, looks at him. “You weren’t,” he finishes, slowly.  
   
Tony shakes his head, clambers off his hips, and ducks his head away, stinking of shame. “The food will be here soon,” he says, without looking at Steve, staring at the wall, and then heading for the bathroom and shutting the door.  
   
“Tony?” Steve asks, knocking gently. “Sweetheart – please come out.”  
   
“I’m just – washing up.”  
   
“You washed up,” Steve reminds, softly. “Could you open the door?”  
   
“I need to – just make sure.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says firmly, not quite commanding but getting there, “open the door.”  
   
The lock clicks, and Tony’s head is peering out. “Do you want that massage?” Tony asks, deflecting. “Here, let me – “  
   
Steve takes his shoulders, presses him gently against the wall, dominant but not aggressive. “Tip your chin,” he asks, quietly. “Thank you.” He presses his nose to Tony’s glands, holds him firm, and tries to see what he can find out.  
   
Ross is there, stupidly present. Obie is there. Steve is there. There _is_ someone else. Steve had thought it was a fluke, maybe just someone who worked closely with Ross, but it’s not. It’s a scent embedded deep, _marked,_ meaning they would have slept with Tony.  
   
“Man or woman?” He asks.  
   
“Man.”  
   
“Alpha?”  
   
Tony nods.  
   
“Did he knot you?”  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
Bile in Steve’s throat, he swallows it. “Oh,” he manages, feeling light-headed. “Okay. When?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Does it matter?”  
   
“A little bit.”  
   
“Before I married Ross. When I thought – you were gone. I convinced myself maybe it was forever, and you were never coming back.”  
   
It makes sense. Tony’s an _omega._ What’s he supposed to do in heat? Sit pretty and let the pain take him away? And it’s not fair that he was left on his own, if he took comfort somewhere it’s not the end of the world –  
   
“I wasn’t heating,” Tony says, as if reading his mind. “It – “ he takes a deep breath, cups Steve’s wrist. “There was an Ambassador. Ross and I had talks about – extending the Initiative into his country, and – he wanted me,” Tony finishes, bluntly. “So Ross – he organised – he arranged – “  
   
“He forced you.”  
   
“No. He said if I did it, he would give me intel. Information, about an upcoming piece of legislation.” Tony’s smile is wry. “So I fucked the Ambassador, or rather, he fucked me. And Ross told me they were going to take away my license.”  
   
“And then – you tried to escape.”  
   
“I did.”  
   
“And Ross caught you.”  
   
“He did.”  
   
“So – Ross played you, from the start.”  
   
Tony pushes him away. “Shut up.”  
   
“But it’s true. Tony, how can you not see that – he’s an asshole?”  
   
“I don’t doubt that.”  
   
“I think you do.”  
   
“What do you want from me, Steve?” Tony turns, accusatorily. “Do you want me to slit his throat in the night? I don’t love him, I barely even _like_ him, you don’t need to be _jealous._ ”  
   
“I’m not. I’m worried that when the time comes, you might forget what’s the right thing to do.”  
   
“The right thing? Like, abandoning your omega kind of right?”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says quietly, “I thought we’d discussed that.”  
   
“We have. I’m sorry.” Tony just smells of more shame, like he’s conflicted. “Did you – like your blowjob?”  
   
“It was great, Tony.”  
   
“Good.” Tony sounds satisfied; in the early days, Tony liked Steve to tell him _exactly_ what he liked, give him tips, run over his exact technique and critique how he could do better. Steve doesn’t know it that’s another Obie-thing, or if Tony’s just a real perfectionist.  
   
Tony maybe wants to say something more, but their room service has arrived.  
   
   
He heads back the next day.  
   
Tony shouldn’t have left so early. He had taken the bed, Steve had taken the couch, and his alpha was still sleeping when he quietly slipped out the door. It was a dick move.  
   
But he hadn’t wanted the long, protracted, goodbye. And he had wanted to see Steve sleeping, lines smoothed from his face, unworried and young.  
   
Fucking hell, he loves him so much.  
   
“You’re leaving,” Natasha says, cracking open one eye. She’s sleeping on the couch in the living room of their suite. “So soon?”  
   
“If he asks you, you didn’t see me.”  
   
“Alright,” she says lazily, snuggling back down. “But you’re breaking his heart, Tony.”  
   
He presses a kiss to her hair and she sighs. He slips out the door.  
   
There’s a car in his driveway. A black sedan. It’s about 11AM when he gets home, but that’s still too early for business, right? Tony swings his overnight bag on his shoulder, keys fisted in his hand. He can hear voices in Ross’s study.  
   
His alpha, and one more. Warren, sitting in the big chair, casually laughing like Ross has said something funny.  
   
“You look well,” Ross says cheerfully. “What did you get, a massage?”  
   
“Facial,” Tony says distractedly, “what is he doing here?”  
   
Ross turns. “Tony,” he admonishes, “please, be polite to our guest.”  
   
“What are you doing here?” He directs, letting his bag thump to the floor. “Ross? Care to explain?”  
   
Warren laughs again, like Tony is just so funny. “We’ll have to have Mary visit. And Nick. Maybe they can go that hotel you love, they deserve a treat, God bless them. Mary could bring the twins.”  
   
“That sounds nice,” Ross agrees, and Tony gets the feeling they’re continuing a conversation he wasn’t privy to. “I’m sure they’re exhausted, with all the campaigning.”  
   
Warren nods. “Mary – she’s my rock, Thadd. Nick… Nick can be trouble. But, we take these things in our stride. Lord gives us strength.”  
   
“Amen,” Ross agrees, nodding piously.  
   
“Oh fucking hell,” Tony spits, “what is this. Ross? What’s going on?”  
   
“Tony! Please, your language!”  
   
Warren chuckles. “He’s spirited. I have a – treatment, for taking care of these things. We cleanse our omegas in God’s light. If you ever want him to be baptised – “  
   
“If he continues like this, I might have to consider it,” Ross says warningly. “Tony, leave us.”  
   
“So soon?” Warren asks. “Won’t you tell him the news?”  
   
“News? What news?”  
   
Warren’s smile is so placid, calm, snake in the grass and poison. “As you’re aware,” he says, “I’ll be winning the nomination soon. I’ll be President not long after. I need a VP, someone I can trust. Someone with the right resources and know-how.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “No. You’re lying.”  
   
“And it’s just – the funniest thing, because Thadd here happens to own one of the biggest technological conglomerates in the world. Now, how’s _that_ for funding?”  
   
“Get out,” Tony says quietly, even though he’s burning inside. “Get out of my house.”  
   
“Tony! You can’t talk to him like tha – “  
   
“Not to worry, Thadd, it’s quite alright.” Warren stands, holds out his hand for Ross to shake. “I’m sure Of Ross want’s some time to process his new standing. I’ll see you in DC?”  
   
“Day after tomorrow.”  
   
“Perfect. And you,” Warren smiles, sickly, opening his arms and pulling Tony in for a hug. His body is sharp. “Well, we’ll practically be family, won’t we?” He tips up Tony’s chin, pinches him just slightly, tight; a warning.  
   
Tony is left standing until Ross shows him out, hands clenched into fists, breathing controlled. He will not make a scene. He will not fight. He will keep his composure. He will not give Ross the upper hand –  
   
“You’re _amoral,”_ Tony screams, charging. He’s slamming his fists against Ross’s chest over, and over. “What’s wrong with you? How could you do this? How could you – _do this?”_  
   
“If you’re going to be hysterical, I’ll see myself out.”  
   
“ _No!”_ Tony spits, blocking the door. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare. _Stand there_ and explain yourself to me you weazly, pathetic little man. You’ll bend for anyone, won’t you? You’ll do whatever it fucking takes,” Tony sneers, “you’ll sell your child, your pride, hell, you’ll sell me if that’s what he wants.”  
   
“You’re right,” Ross says simply. “I would. If Warren wanted you bent over a barrel with a bottle up your ass, I’d probably give him that, too. You know why, Tony? When Warren wins, there’s one thing in between me and the presidency. One man, who, eh, you know what? I can take him or leave him, quite frankly. If he dies… it would be so sad. But I would do my duty. Step up for my country. So would you, of course. As the First Consort.”  
   
Ross has got it all wrong. All this time, has he thought Tony was _ambitious?_ “No.” He says.  
   
“Come again?”  
   
“No,” Tony says, quietly, firmly. “I’m not going to help you.”  
   
Ross considers. “Okay,” he says, “well, I still need you for children. I want them to be smart, although you’re really testing that idea right now. I still need your money for the campaign, I need your company lobbying. So I hope you don’t think I’m letting you just – _leave._ ”  
   
Tony didn’t. He never thought that was a possibility.  
   
“I suppose I’ll take a second. Someone who’s actually willing to help me.” Ross puts his hands on his hips, shrugs his shoulders. “This is your last chance. Walk out now, and this marriage is finished. Don’t expect to ever rely on me for everything again.”  
   
“I’ve never relied on you for anything.”  
   
“If you say so.”  
   
“I’ll pay you,” Tony blurts, suddenly, desperately. “If you let me go, I’ll pay you. I’ll – finance the campaign. I’ll finance Warren’s campaign, if that’s what it takes.”  
   
“Tony,” Ross says, and his voice goes soft. He rests a heavy hand on his shoulder, rubs slightly. “Listen to me, boy. Together, we can get rid of Warren. Remove him. I’ll be the _President,_ understand? I can do it without you, but I don’t want to. When you’re First Consort, who can stop you? Who would be able to tell you no? Would you ever have to walk into a room full of alphas have them laugh in your face? Would anyone dare suggest you shouldn’t be allowed to fly? You’d be a patriot, if you played your cards right, said the right things, people would eat it up. Forget Warren,” Ross scoffs, “he’s a stepping stone, he’s nothing. If we don’t kill him, we’ll manufacture some scandal. I bet you’re not the first omega he’s had attacked.”  
   
This is Ross’s danger. He can sound so reasonable, and dress it up as kindness. Tony has gotten lazy, he realises. Complacent. He’d forgotten that you need to be on your toes at all times when it comes to Ross, constantly need to be on guard. He was, at the start. Somehow, he got Ross to trust him, or at least to think of him as an ally.  
   
He can’t let go now. He can’t push Ross away, at the final hurdle. What had Tony said, all those months ago?  
   
 _Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer._  
   
He nods, slowly. “Okay,” he says quietly.  
   
“Okay? You – agree?”  
   
“I do.”  
   
Ross laughs, hugs him. “You see?” He crows, “What can’t we achieve, together? When I’m President, we can push against Ellis’s omega legislation, you’ll see. You’ll see, Tony. Ignore Warren, I’ll never let him touch you.”  
   
“Okay,” Tony says, numb.  
   
Ross reaches down, grabs his cheeks, and plants a kiss on his lips. Tony doesn’t reciprocate, he forgets to, and so Ross forces his way into Tony’s mouth with his tongue, with his teeth. Tony wants to vomit, but he can’t. He wants to cry, but it’s not allowed.  
   
   
Ross goes two days later. He leaves Tony in charge of his affairs, tells him as soon as Warren secures the nominations they’ll both be out on the trail. Tony couldn’t care less. He just doesn’t care about Ross and his schemes any more.  
   
“John,” Tony says that evening. “I’m going to Thadd’s study. I’m going to look through his desk and I’m going to try and find some incriminating evidence about him. Are you going to stop me?”  
   
John, characteristically silent, blinks slowly. It’s probably as close as he can come to surprise. “I should,” he exhales, tiredly.  
   
“If you do, I will tell him that you know I’m on birth control, that you have known for the past eight months, and that you were one who drove me to get it.”  
   
“Okay,” John says easily, turning back to his tablet. “You win. Have fun.”  
   
Steve says Ross took his letters. Okay, fine. Tony can believe it. He just needs _proof,_ proof of anything, proof of a single thing to take him down, like great fat balloon. He’s been talking to Warren; maybe if he could find something on him, or something – the holiest of holies – that would even be grounds for divorce. It would have to be good.  
   
When Tony tried to divorce Obie (cut him some slack, he’d been young and naive), the lawyers had asked him: can you prove he’s a threat to your life? Yes, Tony had begged, yes, he’s a threat. He says he’ll kill me all the time.  
   
They’d laughed in his face. _No, Of Stane, can you_ prove _he’s a threat to your life? Has he shot you? Has he given you any life-threatening injuries?_  
  
 _No,_ Tony had admitted, but he’d feverishly pulled up his shirt to show them where Obie had beaten him black and blue, _but he might. He might kill me, one day._  
   
His parents had just died, and Obie was showing his true colours.  
   
All those years, he had no one.  
   
Now, though, he has some one. Who cares for him, apparently, a slew of them coming out from the rafters and proclaiming love. So Tony’s going to need to be a bit more proactive than crying into his pillow.  
   
They’d tried to be kind, those lawyers. _Sweetheart, you need to stop making him angry. Have you tried pilates? My wife loves pilates. It gets you in shape, too,_ and, _we won’t tell him you were here, don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us._  
   
Someone had seen him in the lobby though. When Obie asked what he was doing at HQ, Tony had asked him outright for a divorce.  
   
Time to stop thinking about that.  
   
Tony is sitting on the floor, rifling through boxes of junk. So far nothing. Lots of war memorabilia, Ross fought in Vietnam Tony knows. Letters from his family, when they were alive. A letter from his wife, the old one, who died.  
   
Medical records too. Tony learns for the first time that she died of ovarian cancer, that she was 5’2, 110lbs, had short brown hair and a nice smile. There’s a picture of her with a baby Betty Ross in her arms. Tony, abruptly, feels like an intruder. A homewrecker. _Betty stopped talking to her father long before you got involved,_ he tells himself. _Hey, does that make you her step-carrier?_  
   
His own medical record, printed and filed. God, Ross is such a luddite. _155lbs. Brown hair, brown eyes. Heart issues (unconfirmed, no longer prevalent), hysterical tendencies._  
  
Hysterical tendencies. That’s what they call it, when you’re omega, and when you’re smart.  
   
 _Sound breeding stock._ His medical license, the one they send with the marriage contract. _Fertile, tested. Non-virgin, two previous sexual partners. Has miscarried twice, one baby born dead (suspected fault with alpha). Alpha, Stane, was hard-handed, but From Stark was only sent to ER twice._  
  
 _Loyal, very clever for his breed. Ideal for those wanting quality children. However, should be stimulated; can become jaggy, depressive, and violent when deprived of activity or purpose. He’s not a lapdog, Ross. You’ll need to keep him occupied, or he’ll blow up the house._  
   
Tony is long used to people talking about him like he’s a piece of meat.  
   
It’s remarkable that Ross doesn’t hide this better. Cocky? Maybe he believes John would never let him in here. Or maybe it’s the biometric lock on the cabinet that makes him think no one would be able to break in. Idiot. Does he think Tony’s in pre-school?  
   
They’re not hidden, or even masked as anything else. A big thick bundle of letters, marked with the address of HQ. _Okay,_ Tony thinks reasonably, _doesn’t mean he stole them. Could be he doesn’t know what they are, he said he used to check my fanmail –_  
  
A scribbled note. _Ross, here are the letters you asked for. Haven’t opened them, but they must be important – I’ll update you when a new one comes in._  
   
Okay. That’s pretty incriminating.  
   
Still, Tony is beyond shock, or even distress.  
   
He sits, and reads.  
   
   
Tony tells John he’s going into town to run some errands, and he might be all day. He gets into his car, and drives, and drives, and drives.  
   
Steve is already in their usual room, waiting. “Tony!” He says, surprised. “I thought you wouldn’t be – mmph.”  
   
Tony kisses him, a hands-curled-in-shirt, standing-on-toes, full-bodied kiss. Steve’s eyes go wide, then he eases back into it, like he never left at all. “On the bed,” Tony orders, tugging off his polo and ripping at Steve’s buttons. “Just – hurry up,” he snaps.  
   
“Wait,” Steve pants, “wait, why now – “  
   
“Shut up and get on the bed,” Tony says, half vicious, half desperate. “Knot me. I want you to knot me, God, I haven’t a proper fucking in _years –_ “  
   
Steve’s scent nosedives into something shocking, _lustlustllustlustBREEDlust._ “Are you sure?” He breathes, flapping with Tony’s shirt, “won’t Ross – “  
   
“He’s gone. A week. _Take me,_ you – lump. Just do it, c’mon – “  
   
Steve charges; he’s on the bed, he’s floating. It’s bliss. It’s hot, and deep, and it’s touch, soft and safe. _Finally,_ he thinks deliriously, hand tight in hair, on arm, on thigh, _finally._  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a favour, I had a 12-hour car journey tomorrow, so comments to brighten my day would be appreciated. I feel like this is a good time to check in with how you think the story is going?
> 
> Also, as a note, things get better for from here, sort of, in that he gets Steve and Bucky. But there's a really awful chapter coming up soon that I was in two minds about even writing that I just want to give warning for. We're actually half-way (more than half way?) through, so things start to get REAL after this.


	12. Chapter 12

   
Tony isn’t submissive by nature.  
   
In another world, an older world, he would be a head bitch. Bonded to a prime, in charge of the second omegas, commanding the pack while alpha is away. In Tony’s world, the upper class world, where every feeling regulated, every desire a liability, there’s no concept of this role. Omegas marry alphas, that’s it. Maybe, rarely, they’ll marry into an alpha-beta power couple. It’s rare. There’s no need for omegas who hold their own, in fact, it’s considered offensive. As a result, omegas like Tony – well. They learn to adapt.  
   
Steve wonders, what would Tony like if Stane hadn’t bred it out of him? Would he like it slow, would he like it rough? Would he like it gentle, soft, the way Steve likes to give?  
   
The first time – God, Steve had been so angry. What had they fought about? He can’t even remember, something petty, but Tony had snapped his teeth and pushed, and Steve had retaliated, because where he comes from an omega who gives out first will almost always get it right back. And it was Tony who’d laid his lips against Steve’s, fisted his hands in his shirt, and it was Tony who led him to the bedroom, still biting, licking, deliciously feral in a way no one ever is anymore.  
   
He learns later he was the second person ever Tony had slept with. Another thing lost in translation between the years, between their own separate social classes. The omegas Steve knew growing up were – not loose, not in the sense that they were easy. But within their packs, relations were encouraged. Sex for an omega was never taboo. The idea you would go three years without even touching yourself was – fuck, Steve still thinks it’s obscene. Not healthy, not right. But Tony is such a stubborn creature, and he’s so traditional in his own way. There are certain notions imprinted in his head, and Steve doesn’t want to be the patronising bastard who tries to change his mind.  
   
Finding out what Tony likes in bed had always been a terrifying mystery. At first, he was wooden – in the early days, Steve never knew whether he was enjoying it or not, kept checking in the to the point of exasperation, much to Tony’s chagrin. He learns that Stane had liked him quiet, always. He had liked him face down, ass up. Tony’s natural predilections, whatever they may have been, were lost years ago. It never fails to amaze Steve how adaptable Tony can be, even at a detriment to himself.  
   
Tony likes to be dominated, but only once he’s been allowed to put up a fight. He accepts submission, but only when it’s earned. He can be frustratingly quiet about his desires, to the point of miscommunication, and rarely voices discomfort. Sometimes he’ll lead and then let Steve take over, but will never indicate at what point the power exchange takes place. If Steve gets it wrong, he can be upset that his hidden cues weren’t picked up on. It’s hard for him to be natural, the idea of sex for pleasure in a fairly new concept. The first time Steve tried to go down on him, Tony kicked him in the face in panic. He hates oral sex, finds it disgusting when Steve tries to eat him out, or even tease his cock, but loves reciprocating.  
   
By contrast, Steve likes cuddling.  
   
But all of this never really _bothered_ him, never to the point he thought about calling it quits. Tony’s sex life is complex, his neuroses hard to put down. Patience is required. The progress they had made, over those years, had been immense. Tony, Steve thinks, had come to like spontaneity, had found a rhythm, had stopped feeling so ashamed of his body and the pleasure it could produce.  
   
Steve had worried that this would be undone, after everything. After – Ross. After what Steve did.  
   
He shouldn’t have worried.  
   
“Harder,” Tony grits, one hand reaching back to claw at Steve’s hip, the other flapping to hold onto his hair. “Fucking – _harder,_ do it harder!”  
   
Steve huffs, jerks his hips, wraps his arms around Tony’s thighs and pulls them wider. He’s got his back pressed to Steve’s chest, his head resting on Steve’s shoulder, panting, gasping, legs splayed in the air while Steve goes harder, _harder, harder!,_ both of them cloaked in sweat, hair stuck to their brows, bodies so close they’re melded –  
   
Tony is tactile, that’s something Steve learnt. He likes the touch, craves it, never has enough. Now, it’s like he’s trying to push his way into Steve’s skin, his hands scraping every part they can find, desperate and roaming. “Call me a bad boy,” he pants, “tell me I’m a bad boy, a dirty, dirty bad boy. Do it, tell me. Do it!”  
   
“You’re filthy,” Steve husks, as commanding as his voice will allow in this state, “you’re filthy and loving this, aren’t you? Tony, my Tony, God, you’re so fucking – “  
   
“No,” Tony snaps, twisting his hips to take Steve deeper, “no, I want you to – “ Tony grunts in frustration – this is the whole lack of communication thing. At least he’s trying. “Get on the bed and _fuck me,_ stop being a fucking pussy, just – spank my ass, go harder, just – make me _feel!”_  
   
Steve lunges, pushes Tony’s chest flat against the bed, holds his head against the sheets. “Like this?” He asks, breathless.  
   
“Faster,” Tony insists, curling his hands tight into the bedsheets, “make it hurt, make it – touch me everywhere, please, fucking _come on_ Steve, give me what I want baby, I haven’t – “  
   
Steve snaps his hips sharp against Tony’s ass, braces his hands over Tony’s head, in a fit of passion bites the side of his throat so he screams, laughs, throws back his head. “Yes!” He breathes, “Like that! More, give me – “  
   
The bed is shaking, Tony pushed forward with every thrust, his body trembling with the force of it. “I’m going to knot you,” Steve manages to get out. His brain is going offline, he can sense it, the close he comes to knotting the harder it is to form the words Tony wants to here. “You – you slut, knotting you out of heat like a desperate bitch. God, you’re going to be gaping, I’ll be able to take you whenever, just slide in – “  
   
“I’m a bitch,” Tony groans, “fucking hell, yes, harder, go _harder – “_  
   
Steve, momentarily, snaps out of it. “If I go harder I’ll hurt you.” He says, pausing. “Are you sure – “  
   
“Fucking hell!” Tony spits, looking over his shoulder. “Just go! Keep going! I want – oh, fuck, _yes,_ that’s it baby, right there Steve, I – I – I want, I want to be knotted, so fucked out I can’t even _speak,_ and I want you to come all over me, make me filthy with it, smell like you and only you, yes, yes, oh yes, yes, fucking – _yes!”_  
   
He throws back his head as Steve hits _that_ spot inside him, the one that makes him clench, and laughs wildly when Steve forces his head back down into the covers, holds it there and pulls out. “Patience,” Steve wheezes, “God, look at you squirming for it, so desperate – “  
   
“I’m a bitch,” Tony says, muffled. “I’m a bitch, and all I need is your knot, fucking give me your knot you selfish fucking bastard – “  
   
Steve pushes back in and Tony moans, clenching. This time, Steve sets the pace, gives Tony what he wants: a long, hard, toe-curling fuck. “You like that?” Steve asks, honestly wanting to know. “Not making demands now, are you, huh?”  
   
“Hair,” Tony breathes, “ _hair.”_  
   
“What?”  
   
“Pull my – pull my hair.”  
   
That’s – okay, if it’s what he wants. Steve fists two hands into the sweat soaked curls and pulls, continues to fuck into him like it’s all he’s there for, and Tony groans, shudders, utters expletives that Steve didn’t realise were possible to string together in a coherent sentence. “Like this?” Steve questions, snapping his hips against Tony’s ass, “this hard enough for you?”  
   
“Bitch.”  
   
“Excuse me?!”  
   
“Call me bitch!”  
   
“Jesus fucking – okay, is this hard enough for you bitch, huh? You were bred for this, sweetheart, you were just bred to be fucked like this, taking an alpha’s knot outside of heat, _God,_ what a slut – “  
   
“I am,” Tony agrees, vehemently, “I am a slut. Tell me I’m a slut. I’m a dirty, dirty slut – “  
   
Steve can’t take that anymore. He doesn’t know what Tony’s motivation is, but he doesn’t want to call him those things. He covers him, lays his chest against his back and snaps his hips faster, harder, so words are no longer possible for Tony to conjure, forces his fingers into Tony’s mouth. He just whines, then, laughs, toes curling, fingers curling, dripping with the exertion and shaking the bed until they knot. It’s painful, it must be, but Tony craves it, accepts it, welcomes it. He laughs, he keeps laughing, until he finally slumps, fucked out, exhausted, pinned and held.  
   
Steve has lost words. He snuffles around Tony’s shoulders, smells all the new scents embedded there. _ROSSROSSROSSROSSROSS_ screams at him, a cacophony, an awful set cymbals and drums. _Stanestanestane_ is still buried, somewhere, the first Tony ever had. There’s something else, or rather, someone else, thin but steady. Steve knows now it’s the alpha, the other alpha, that _Ambassador._  
   
“Mmph,” Tony says, coherently. “Careful,” he manages, correcting himself, too dozy to make the sentence work properly. “I’m sensiti – ah, ah,” he releases in a sigh as Steve latchs on to the back of his neck, sucks there, swipes it with the flat of his tongue to rid it of other scents. Tony makes noises, barely able to lift his head, eyes drooping. “Like that,” he sighs, “like that.”  
   
Good. _Good._ If Tony likes it, Steve will do it. He sets about making sure Tony gets everything he needs.  
   
After, Tony is – is he sleeping? Steve doesn’t know. But he’s resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, breath warm, heart steady. _This is all I wanted,_ Steve thinks giddily. _Just you, with me, like this._  
   
Tony exhales slow, sure. He traces his fingertips around Steve’s breast, over and over. “I missed you,” he says, throaty, quiet. “I missed you, so, so much. Like an ache, a really painful ache, always. Chronic pain. And the best way to heal a wound is to just – cauterize it. So that’s what I tried to do.”  
   
“I’m sorry.”  
   
“It’s okay.”  
   
“No it’s not.”  
   
Tony goes quiet again, intense. “I found your letters,” he says, as if trying to sound happy. “They were nice.”  
   
So he knows, now. Any doubt that might have been in his mind has been extinguished. “I don’t care about the letters,” Steve admits. “Let’s forget about the letters. Start again.”  
   
“I have… so much to talk about,” Tony says tiredly. “There’s a lot we need to discuss.”  
   
“How long do you have?”  
   
“Ross is in DC this week. I can go home late if I have too.”  
   
Perfect. A whole day with Tony is – unbelievable luxury. They can have an hour maybe to just rest, and then talk about what they need to talk about. He presses his lips to Tony’s hair.  
   
“He’s running on Warren’s ticket,” Tony says quietly. It somewhat shatters the romantic mood.  
   
“What?”  
   
A sigh, weary. “He’s running to be Warren’s vice-president. He jazzed it up, made out like he’s only doing it so he can take his place when he kills Warren, but I don’t know. I never know with him,” Tony admits. “He always catches me out eventually.”  
   
“You’re cleverer than him.”  
   
“Sure. But I’m not at my best.”  
   
“You killed Obie no problem.”  
   
“It took me years to work up the balls to do that, Steve. And even then it was only because he was literally trying to beat me to death with my own suit. I’m not a murderer.”  
   
“I am,” Steve says earnestly. “I can make it look like an accident.”  
   
Tony looks at him, face warm, eyes wrinkled. He nips Steve’s chin. “You’re such a romantic.”  
   
“But I can,” Steve presses. “I’ll kill him if that’s what you want. Is that what you want?”  
   
“I want you to stay out of it, for your sake. And everyone’s sake. Think of Bucky. Think what happens to him if you get caught – “  
   
“Who said anything about getting caught?”  
   
Tony huffs. “He’ll try to goad you,” he says, bluntly. “He’ll try and smoke you out. I’m the biggest thing he has against you, and the team follows you. He hates the Avengers, Steve. Do _not_ give him a reason to put you all in the Raft.”  
   
“Even if he hurts you?”  
   
“ _Especially_ if he hurts me. If he hurts me and you go in, guns blazing, you’ll be playing right into his hands. In fact, I forbid you,” Tony commands. “Listen to me: if you trust me, if you value me at all, you will _not_ attack Ross without my say-so. There’s too much at risk, period.”  
   
“But what if – “  
   
“No.”  
   
“Tony!”  
   
 _“No!”_ Tony insists. “I mean it. If you decide to take matters into your own hands, you bring your team down with you. It’s not just _about you,_ it’s not just about _your_ choices, they affect everyone. Please. Give me peace of mind.”  
   
Steve doesn’t want to lie to Tony. “I can’t pretend that if he hurt you, my hindbrain wouldn’t make a decision for me.”  
   
“Oh, shut up,” Tony says, without much bite. “I have a hindbrain too, you know. It’s not in control. Rational thought _exists,_ Steve, don’t you use that as an excuse.”  
   
“I’m just saying – “  
   
“That you won’t give Ross what he wants. Please. _Please.”_  
   
“Don’t beg,” Steve says weakly, because he hates hates hates it when Tony pleads. It makes him feel like a heel. “I won’t, okay? I won’t give him what he wants,” he phrases carefully.  
   
Tony isn’t satisfied, he can tell. Still, he settles back down, resting his head on Steve’s chest with a ‘hrrumph’. “No one ever listens to me,” he grumbles.  
   
“I listen to you!”  
   
“No, you don’t. You make all the right noises, and then you just go ahead and do whatever it was you wanted to do in the first place.”  
   
“I feel that’s unfair.”  
   
“I feel you should listen to me.”  
   
Steve lets his head roll back to rest on the headboard. “What else did he say?” He asks, diverting.  
   
“I asked him for a divorce, sort of. Well no, I said, ‘I want a divorce’.”  
   
“And he said?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Figures.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony sighs. “He also said, if I didn’t support him, or if I caused trouble, he would have me sent away, and he would get a second.”  
   
“So what did you tell him?”  
   
“That I would support him. What else could I say?”  
   
  _Let me kill him,_ Steve thinks. _Please just let me kill him, Tony. You could be free by next week._ “You’re underestimating him,” Tony says, as if reading his thoughts. “Don’t do that.”  
   
“Didn’t you?”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, smiling wryly, “and now I’m paying for it.”  
   
“You act like it’s some kind of punishment.”  
   
“Yeah, a punishment for being stupid.”  
   
“You’re not stupid. Don’t call yourself that.” Tony would, at the beginning. When they fought, or when he made a mistake. Stane must have called him that, made him think that, or at least ingrained it in him enough for it to become a natural reaction.  
   
“Fine, I’m not stupid. Happy?”  
   
“Marginally.”  
   
“I – “ Tony sighs. His breath tickles Steve’s skin. “I feel in over my head.”  
   
“Not true.”  
   
“Steve…”  
   
“Tony, we’ve been over this. You are the smartest, most capable person – “  
   
“You know. _I_ know. I mean, I’m not meant to be a political stooge. I’m meant to build things, and fix them. I hate chess. I hate mind games. All I want is to build, and maybe – I always thought I would have kids by now. I’m getting _old,_ Steve, I wasted all that time with Obie, and now I’m with Ross – “  
   
“If I killed him – “  
   
“Would you stop?!”  
   
“I’m just saying! _Suggesting._ We can pay someone to kill him, I don’t need to get my hands dirty – “  
   
“Do not try to kill him!”  
   
Stalemate.  
   
Steve rests his hand on Tony’s neck. Tony sighs. “Are you trying to persuade me?” He mumbles drowsily.  
   
“No. I just want you to enjoy yourself.”  
   
“Hmmm,” Tony agrees, longingly. “You are good at that.”  
   
“We need to have a plan, though. Just in case he does try something.”  
   
“Try something?”  
   
“Hurting you. Sending you away. I want to know what’s happening in that house.”  
   
“How about we stop talking about my husband, and you just pet me instead?” Tony hikes the duvet up till it covers him almost completely, just a shock of brown hair peeking out against Steve’s chest. “Warm,” he mumbles. “Nice and snuggly. Mmm, keep doing that please.”  
   
“What about your scent? I didn’t take any distiller. What if – “  
   
“Tell Natasha to drop off a cleanser. Shh. Petting time.”  
   
“But are you sure that’ll work? If he gets even a hint – “  
   
“A cleanser, and a week, will get me back to neutral, John won’t care, would you just shut up and pet me?” Tony is frowning, brow furrowed adorably, snapping his teeth lightly at Steve’s chin.  
   
He loses that battle. He strokes Tony until his breathing deepens into something soft.  
   
   
“You should stay longer,” Steve says from the bed. “You said Ross wouldn’t know.”  
   
Tony smiles, pulling his shirt over his head. “Yeah,” he says, “but I’m not trying to get cocky.”  
   
“When will I see you again?” Steve murmurs.  
   
“Soon. Maybe next week, maybe – two weeks. Just in case.”  
   
“Can I kiss you?”  
   
Tony is smiling, still. _He’s so nice when he smiles,_ Steve thinks warmly. Like a whole other person. _He should smile more often. I’m going to make it so he smiles more often._  
   
“Mmm,” Tony says into his lips. “And next time… I don’t know. We can something you’ve always wanted.”  
   
“You’ll sit on my face?”  
   
“That’s – ew. No, not that. Anything but that.”  
   
Tony’s nose has wrinkled. He smells depressingly flat, devoid of scent, the scrub that Natasha gave him washing away any taste of Steve. Still, there’s next time. Next time. Steve will get to hold Tony again.  
   
   
“You’re surprisingly chipper,” Ross says over his paper. He sips from the coffee Tony made him, narrows his eyes. “What’s gotten into you?”  
   
Tony keeps humming, flips over the French toast. “Why wouldn’t I be? My alpha’s going to be the vice-president, isn’t he?”  
   
Lies, lies, lies.  
   
“You’ve come around.”  
   
“I always come around. Toast?”  
   
Ross is still glaring at him suspiciously. “I’ll take some toast,” he says, watching Tony cross the floor. “Have you poisoned it, or something?”  
   
Tony laughs like he’s said the funniest thing. “Where would I get poison?” He says sweetly.  
   
“And how did you spend your week?” Ross asks, turning back to his paper. “Have fun without me?”  
   
“Not really.” Lie. “Didn’t do much. Went to the spa, they stuck needles in my face to make it – “  
   
“I don’t want to know.”  
   
Perfect. “I was thinking, I might set up a standing appointment. It’s supposed to help with ageing, and you know, I’m not getting any younger, and it’s never too soon to start planning ahead – “  
   
“I don’t care,” Ross says dismissively, crunching on some toast. “Except – oh, not this weekend.”  
   
Tony looks up, sharp. “Why not?”  
   
“We have a trip planned, you and me.”  
   
“A trip?” Please not Paris, please not Paris, please not –  
   
“Pennsylvania.”  
   
“Wow. Romantic.”  
   
“Not like that,” Ross says disparagingly. “It’s for work. Warren’s having a party, if you must know.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes, feels dread boil in his stomach. “And I have to go?”  
   
“Of course you have to go.”  
   
“I can’t be sick?”  
   
Ross glares at him. “What kind of message does it show if my omega doesn’t come with me to greet the sponsors?”  
   
“He tried to have me raped.”  
   
Ross clears his throat loudly, rustles his newspaper. “Enough about that. I sincerely hope you won’t be repeating that story at the party.”  
   
Tony was supposed to see Steve this weekend. He’d had it all planned out. “Oh, so it’s definitely a story now. Never mind you saw the bruises, and I was sat up in bed for a week.”  
   
“I’m not saying you weren’t _attacked,_ I’m simply not giving any credence to your statement that Warren was the one who sent the men. Oh don’t look at me like that,” he snaps, “I’ll make it up to you. What do you want? I’ll get you something nice. A new hat?”  
   
Tony passive aggressively chews his toast. “I don’t want anything,” he says airily, crossing his arms. “I just want an alpha that supports me, is all.” He sighs dramatically. “What did I do to deserve this?” He laments, “All I wanted in life was an alpha who loved me. I thought I would have children by now, not – “  
   
“Drop the act. Nick will be there, don’t you want to see Nick? He wants to see you, apparently. In fact, Warren says he never shuts up about you.”  
   
Tony feels a stab of guilt. He’ll be far along now, he thinks. Almost due. “I don’t know why,” he grumbles, “it’s not like I’m that nice to him.”  
   
“I don’t know, Tony. I think that poor boy has a lot on his plate. It might be nice to indulge him.”  
   
That is genuine sympathy, Tony thinks. How weird. The mental gymnastics it must take to _realise_ that Warren is mistreating that boy, but simultaneously not care, and do the same to Tony. “Well, if you and your new friend get your way, we can all be as well-balanced as Nick.”  
   
Ross says nothing, slowly chews his toast. “You should go,” he says heavily. “Don’t push me while I’m feeling generous. You’re coming, and that’s final.”  
   
   
At night, Tony thinks about Steve.  
   
Steve’s lips on his neck, and his hands on his waist. The soft kisses to his thighs, the steady grip, sweeping strokes. He holds Steve’s face, and smiles at the thought. _Steve._ His. Alive, and his, and so perfect.  
   
How long before he sees him again? Next week, for sure. Definitely. Tony wouldn’t be able to go without the touch, he thinks. Like this, in his private moments, it’s not so awful, not so bad if he just –  
   
He’s wet, damp between his thighs. He lets his hand drift, if only to make himself comfortable. Steve’s lips, Steve’s eyes, Steve’s tongue. His fingers. His scent. His –  
   
Tony is coming, hot, shameful. The room reeks of it, of embarrassment and sex. He’s stained the sheets. _It’s worth it,_ he thinks drowsily. He’s never done that before, not like this. He laughs to himself, silently. _Figures They don’t like us touching ourselves,_ he thinks, _we’d never need Them again._  
   
   
Ross’s house is big. Well – technically it’s Tony house, too. His home. Still, when Tony saw it for the first time, he’d thought it was overkill. Too big for one man with it’s eight bedrooms and ten bathrooms.  
   
If Tony’s home is a mansion, Warren’s is a fucking – castle.  
   
Nineteen children, Tony is told. Warren has _nineteen_. Twelve from a first wife, long dead, who died squeezing out the last before his body croaked. Seven from his current wife, the She-Wolf. And lucky number twenty, about to come into the world through Nick.  
   
That’s just – obscene. _There’s a population crisis!_ Tony wants to scream, _am I the only one who cares about that?!_  
   
Most of them are old enough to have children of their own, the eldest have _grand-children._ Tony thinks about his little family, his sire, his carrier, just the three of them. None of the first wife, second wife, third wife junk. Pack dynamics make him shudder. They make him want to scream. The claustrophobia would kill him. No wonder Nick lost it.  
   
“Be polite,” Ross breathes through his plastered-on grin. “Don’t show me up now, boy.”  
   
He pushes him slightly, so he stumbles out from the car. The valet takes their keys. Ross is pulling him up steps.  
   
“I can walk,” Tony snaps, stealing back his arm.  
   
“Good. Prove it.” Another push, and then Ross is holding out his arm. “Mary! Don’t you look fantastic. I can find Warren in the lounge?”  
   
The bitch, Of Warren, smiles, her toad face stretched in an orange smile. “You could,” she says, “he’s busy busy, Mr Ross. Please remind him that this party is for him, and he should take some time out.”  
   
Ross makes some non-committal noise, like he’s not even listening, which seems to grate on her nerves. _Good,_ Tony thinks, _welcome to my world._ “Be a good boy,” Ross says, patting Tony head like he’s a child being left at a daycare, or maybe a favoured pet, and then he disappears into the inner sanctum, holiest of holies, Warren’s study; a place people like Tony will never be allowed.  
   
Mary’s smile drops. “You,” she says, flatly. “You came.”  
   
“Like I have a choice.”  
   
She narrows her eyes. “I don’t like it,” she states. “I don’t like this new state of affairs. Do not expect me to give anything to you, Second Consort of the United States or not. _I’m_ Warren’s, you’re nothing, understand?”  
   
“I don’t like it either.”  
   
Of Warren snorts. “Right,” she sneers, “of course. Like you’re not an up-jumped, ambitious little bitch.”  
   
“I don’t want Ross working with your alpha.” Tony is cool, calm. “I think he’s hypocritical. I think it’s ridiculous. I don’t like this anymore than you.”  
   
“He’s not – God fearing,” Of Warren says cautiously. “It’s not right.”  
   
“We don’t have a choice. And I’d rather not have my name tied to this mess when it blows up like a lead balloon.”  
   
“We’ll win, Of Ross.”  
   
“Maybe.” Tony looks past her head, into the lounge. “Is that – is that Edward? Edward of Sokolov?”  
   
“Of Sokolov? No. He’s Of Burr, now. The old Russian alpha croaked while he was in… well. While he was _away._ Mrs Burr is very supportive of our campaign, she’s such an angel. And to take on Edward, after everything… if I was the second going into that relationship, I’d ask to have him released. But she’s such a traditionalist, very kind, and – “  
   
“Shut up,” Tony says distantly, not listening. “Take this.” He shoves the gift John had bought and wrapped into her hands, except she’s not ready and so is slams on the ground. Something shatters. Probably glass. Whoops.  
   
Tony makes his way to drinks, ignoring Of Warren’s cries of irritation. He makes a big show examining the punch and other tame drinks on offer.  
   
“Edward,” Tony says quietly, helping himself to a drink, head bowed, secret. “Where did they take you?”  
   
Edward’s cheeks have sunken in. His face is sallow, jaundiced, his eyes purpling. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, dully. He pats a napkin along his mouth, hiccups.  
   
He’s sick, obviously. Could just be ill. Probably something more. “Your alpha – “  
   
“Dead,” he says, flatly. “He died while I was gone. _She_ wouldn’t let me see him, but,” he shrugs a shoulder. “I heard it was peaceful.”  
   
“I’m so sorry.”  
   
“Don’t be,” Edward says, eyes shuttered, and then he hiccups again, presses the tissue to his lips. “Twenty years, we’d been married. And he was always kind to me, he – he wouldn’t have sent me away. Not if he was lucid. She’s taken a second. He’s nice enough. They don’t really have time for me. I asked to be released, but She wouldn’t let me. So now I just… exist.”  
   
His suit doesn’t fit. It had, the last time Tony saw him. It had been well-cut, and Edward had been laughing, acerbic and sharp as ever. Now his shoulders are hunched, he’s skinny, a skeleton, skin stretched over his face. His teeth have yellowed, his black hair is lacklustre, flat and greying. “Besides,” he croaks, “who would take me now? I’m a known d-deviant,” he stutters over the word.  
   
“So you’re not magically cured,” Tony says dryly, more in anger than apathy. “Imagine that, you can’t actually change who you love overnight – “  
   
“They would – show me videos. You know, of omegas touching each other. And I – “ Edward gags, presses the napkin to his mouth, swallows, continues. “They would give me something that made me sick. And eventually, I felt so sick all the time, and I couldn’t get wet no matter what they showed me, and so they called me cured. They brought doctors,” Edward huffs, almost smiles. “They asked me questions, and I was still – myself, back then, so I really led them on. Told them I’d seen the light, I was a new O. Anyway. I met someone. I loved her. They found us, sent her away, and they got _Her_ permission to beat me bloody. After that, it was the drug again, but they did it too many times. Fucked up my stomach. And I shake a lot, too. And I feel – “ Edward looks at him, eyes blank. “I figure you must know. You’ve been through so much. How do you do it?”  
   
Tony wants to tell Edward the truth, which is that if not for Steve, and if not for his suits, he would have given up a long time ago. But Edward doesn’t have a Steve, he never will because they’ll never let him. And he’ll never have a job, or be able to support himself with his non-existent education. So Tony can’t answer.  
   
“Things are changing,” he says quietly, tucking Edward’s frail hand between his. “Maybe not for us. Maybe it’s too late for us. But for our children. There are places on Earth where – where omegas can marry omegas and no one cares. It doesn’t mean anything at all. Hell, there are people _here_ who don’t care. It will change, I promise. Edward,” Tony stresses, because he’s got a spaced out, looped look in his eyes. “Edward I swear, it’ll be better for you.”  
   
Edward coughs, a frail, cracked thing. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Maybe. I need to lie down, now.”  
   
“I’ll come with you.”  
   
Edward gives him a sardonic smile. “Tony,” he admonishes, “think how that will look.”  
   
So he goes, and leaves Tony alone at the drinks. He makes himself busy, and hears the chatter of omegas, the sudden rush of… flirt. A bit of lust, a touch of play, even some love. _Alphas,_ Tony thinks. They’ve let alphas into the lounge. Tony never played this game. He never got to wait for an alpha-caller, to feel the rush when you’re chosen, to feel someone young take your hand and call you beautiful. He was married too young, and to someone too old.  
   
It sucked.  
   
They chat amongst themselves, and Tony thinks of Steve. He has the last laugh now. Steve’s hands on his chest, Steve inside him, his fingers against his neck, the smell of his hair. Gentle kisses and long touches, soon, soon he’ll have Steve again. It’s his secret, no one knows, it makes him warm, it makes him want to _dance._ Tony hasn’t _felt_ like this, not for months, and he never got be a giddy boy, but something about Steve just makes him –  
   
“Am I disturbing you? Sorry, I can go. Sorry, I should have started with ‘hello’. I’ve surprised you, haven’t I? I’m sorry. Sorry, I’ll go.”  
   
“Bucky?” Tony blurts. He didn’t even recognise him; he’s had his hair cut short. “I – what are you doing here?”  
   
“Officially?” He smiles, sips from his drink. “I’m veteran support. We all got invitations, obviously Steve wasn’t going to come. But I’m here for you, eyes on the ground. Natasha’s here somewhere, if you look hard enough.”  
   
“Does he often said send people after me?”  
   
“He likes to keep tabs on you. I think he’s scared you’re going to disappear again.”  
   
“Again?”  
   
“Sure. Last time – before you married Ross, I think. He’d been watching you, and suddenly we heard nothing. So now he’s cautious, you know? If you ever feel like someone’s watching you, it’s probably me. Or one of the people he’s paying, I don’t know.”  
   
“He’s paying people to watch me?!”  
   
Bucky smiles, lopsided, easy. “Nah I’m just messing with you. It’s a good idea though. I think we should.”  
   
Barnes stands taller than he used to. He’s still guarded, shoulders slightly folded not quite – Tony doesn’t want to be mean, but – not quite _alpha_ for an alpha. But you can see he would have been handsome, once. In fact – he is, now that he’s cut his hair, shaved. He looks younger, with a jaw that could cut glass. “You’ve freshened up, I see.”  
   
“Do you like it? Steve got me – “ Bucky stops. “Are we alright, now? You and me? I mean… are we okay to talk like this?”  
   
Tony reaches out and awkwardly pats him on the arm. “If I was angry, you would know.”  
   
“You told me I needed a haircut, so. I got a haircut.”  
   
“I like it. It suits you.”  
   
Barnes opens his mouth, shuts it again. “That’s – thank you,” he says warmly. “It’s nice to feel like – it’s nice to feel normal.”  
   
Tony understands. People would look at him like he was freakish when he wore his suit. Like he was an abomination. Sometimes it’s nice to feel – like you belong.  
   
“I, uh,” Bucky awkwardly holds up a little wrapped box. “I have a gift for the second here. Natasha said he was carrying so… we bought a gift? Uh.” Bucky pushes it towards Tony. “Maybe you could take it to him?”  
   
“Or maybe you could… come with?” Tony teases. “Come on,” he says, hooking his arm through Bucky’s metal one. “Don’t leave me alone here. I’m going to blow my brain out.”  
   
Bucky stumbles along with him, and Tony _knows_ the effect he’s having. Maybe it’s because Tony so high on the thought of Steve, or maybe it’s because faintly Bucky smells of him. Maybe, it’s because he _is_ a tease, and he misses flirting, and Bucky is so adorably awkward it just makes him want to string him out some more.  
   
“Am I allowed?” Bucky asks as Tony tugs him up the stairs like an over-eager puppy. “I don’t want to – I don’t know, the rules are so weird now – “  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony assures, and knocks on what he assumes to be Nick’s door. Someone has stuck some sad balloons on the wooden frame, but they’re deflating like farts. _Poor Nick,_ Tony finds himself thinking.  
   
The room is full of a handful of omegas, some guests, some Warren’s own children. Edward had left in search of a bed and has somehow found himself holding Nick’s hand, looking a deathly pale.  
   
“ – and they won’t let me leave!” Nick is complaining to Edward, who looks like he’d rather be asleep than hearing this. “I’ve said, I want to go to the party too, but they say I _can’t_ because I’ve got to stay in bed, but that’s not fair! It’s not! It’s not!”  
   
“It’s not,” Edward agrees, yawning, hand smushed on his cheek. “Oh look,” he says, standing abruptly, “Tony’s here. And he’s brought an alpha caller, aren’t you lucky. And look at the time,” he says, making a show of checking his wristwatch. “Wow, I said I’d be… doing something, at this time.” Edward stalks past them, whispers in Tony ear. “I’m going to be in the car, I’m going to be sleeping, if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me.”  
   
Tony squeezes his arm in farewell, turns his smile on beached omega in the bed. “Nick!” He cries, like he couldn’t be happier. “I’d kiss you, but I don’t think you want anyone near you right now.”  
   
“Tony!” Nick smiles, genuine, ear to ear. “Warren said – he said you might not come, because you’re a rude, stubborn bitch, but you came! I knew you would!”  
   
“Mmm hmm,” Tony says distractedly, wrapping his arm round the small of Bucky’s back and pushing him forward. “This is a friend of mine, Mr Barnes. He’s brought you a little gift.”  
   
“Mr Barnes,” Nick giggles, sitting up a little straighter. “Oh my – Mr Barnes.”  
   
His scent goes a little tipsy, flirty. _Aww,_ Tony thinks, _he’s smitten._ Can’t blame him, Bucky looks good today, with that hair, and that jaw, and that –  
   
“It’s, uh,” Bucky frowns, “a crystal container, I think. I don’t know what it’s used for, but. Uh. Here.” He sets it on the table, and Nick continues to stare at him with big blue eyes.  
   
He pushes his hair back on his head, tries to flattens his curls into something respectable. “Thank you, Mr Barnes,” he says from under lashes. “You’re very kind.”  
   
Bucky is flushing pink, and the whole thing takes on a different tint. If Warren saw what Nick was doing, he’d have him flogged. Tony clears his throat. “And how’s the baby?” He asks, interrupting, sparing Bucky the torment.  
   
(Yes, sparing. That’s what he’s doing. Nothing to do with the fact Nick is a pretty young thing and Tony’s like a wrinkled ballsack next to him in comparison. Nothing to do with that at all.)  
   
“Baby?” Nick asks, turning back to Tony. “It’s – it’s okay, I think. I don’t know. Honestly, I’m so scared. So scared all the time.”  
   
Tony pops a grape in his mouth and sets his feet on the bed, taking Edward’s seat. “It’s not anything worth being scared about,” he says, “we’ve all done it.”  
   
“You have,” Nick says urgently. “I know you have. But Tony, your’s was born dead – what if mine is born – “  
   
“That’s, okay,” there’s a sudden buzz of activity, Bucky coughs loudly to cover the awkwardness and the one of Warren’s daughters fixes a smile on her face. “Enough of that,” she continues, “Nick, that’s very rude, you need to apologise.”  
   
“It’s okay,” Tony says, “we’ve all thought it. Honestly, you don’t need to – it’s fine, Nick.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Nick croaks, “I didn’t think – I wasn’t trying to be rude. I’m just scared.”  
   
“James,” Tony says, regretfully. “Maybe you should go. I’ll see you downstairs.”  
   
Barnes nods, but he’s not looking at Tony. He’s got his eyes fixed on Nick, a small frown on his face. “Sure,” he says, “sure, I’ll… see you downstairs. I’ll find Natasha, she wanted to… see you,” he trails off.  
   
“Nick,” Tony says, quietly, urgently. “Your baby is fine.”  
   
“You don’t know that. _I_ don’t know. I don’t know if it’s a boy, or a girl, or if it’s alpha. I don’t even know if it’s healthy, he won’t let us take the tests because it shouldn’t matter. But it _does_ matter,” Nick hisses. “It _does._ I don’t want it to be – “  
   
“Is it kicking?”  
   
“Yes!”  
   
“Then it’s alive. My baby, he stopped kicking. So as long as you can feel it, you know it’s okay.”  
   
Nick still looks teary. “You’re over the hump,” Tony continues. “Do you know how rare it is for babies to die in childbirth these days?”  
   
“But it happened to you.”  
   
“Does Warren hit you?”  
   
Nick stares at him owlishly, stilling. “What?”  
   
“Does he hit you? Does he beat you?”  
   
Nick’s eyes travel to Warren’s daughter, who’s making a show of folding linen, clearly listening to everything they’re saying. “No,” Nick says tremulously. “He has never raised a hand to me, ever. Except when I deserve it. Or for punishment. But that’s his right,” Nick adds quickly, “that’s – that’s not bad. Sometimes I’m so forgetful, I – I – “  
   
“Has he hit you while you’re carrying?”  
   
Nick shakes his head. “That would hurt the baby,” he says, curling a hand over his stomach. “That’s evil.”  
   
“It is,” Tony agrees, shortly. “You won’t be like me.”  
   
   
Parties set him on edge. He evaluates exits points and potential threats. He stands, skulking in the corner, watching Natasha woo three alphas, who seem to find her the most entrancing thing in the world from the way they’re staring at her chest, the line of her throat when she laughs. Natasha can protect herself, Bucky knows. Still. It sets him on edge.  
   
He’s thinking about the boy upstairs, lying up in bed. Bucky had got an omega pregnant, once. A pretty girl, with blonde hair and blue eyes. What was her name? He tries to focus, recall, bring up the words and spell the letters, but it remains lost to him. Steve might know.  
   
She had lost the baby, anyway. They were both relieved, if Bucky remembers correctly, even though he was prepared to do the honest thing. Her sire had threatened to… Bucky can’t remember. Do something to him, that likely would have hurt, and after she lost the baby, she was sent away.  
   
It suddenly occurs to him that she probably didn’t lose it. There were doctors back then who would take care of those kind of things. He’d probably known, secretly, even then, but didn’t push because he was grateful the whole thing was done with and the burden was gone.  
   
The boy upstairs, though. Something about him makes him so sad. He can’t be older than twenty, and there’s a madness in his eyes. Bucky doesn’t know why it affects him so much, but –  
   
 _It’s Tony,_ his minds supplies, _he reminds you of Tony._  
   
A hand is being slipped through his arm. “Having fun?” Tony smiles, looking up at him. _No,_ Bucky tells himself, _that’s not it. Tony could never be like that. He’s too strong._ Could Tony have been like that once? The vacant eyes, the haphazard flirting… the Tony Bucky knows is put together, poised, careful and sharp. So why does he feel such an aching in his belly for something and someone he’s never known?  
   
So he swallows. “Uh,” he manages, intimately aware of the way Tony’s pressed against him. “No, not really.”  
   
“Neither am I,” Tony confides. “I asked not to come, but I don’t really get a say in the matter. You haven’t seen my dear alpha, have you?”  
   
“He was in the lounge, I think.”  
   
Tony wrinkles his nose. “I hate him,” he says quietly. “Did you know that? I wish he was dead I hate him so much. With every fibre of my being.”  
   
“Oh,” Bucky manages, awkwardly. “That’s… a shame.”  
   
Tony looks at him like he’s an idiot. “I wish I was born alpha,” he mutters. “I wouldn’t have to be half of what I am now if I was.”  
   
Bucky doesn’t understand what he means. “Did you talk to Nick?”  
   
“He’s crazy, always has been. He’s not ready to be a mom, but then it won’t matter, because Warren’s bitch of a wife will take it anyway.” Tony starts to walk, still linked with Bucky. “I hate that, too. The whole dynamic. It’s over complicated, it’s – stupid. No one needs twenty children, and no one needs three mothers.”  
   
Bucky doesn’t have an opinion, because he can smell Tony’s hair. The smaller man leads him out onto the front porch and down the green lawn, chattering about things Bucky can’t really hear. _He can be charming when he wants to be,_ Bucky remembers. Who told him that? Had Steve told him that, Natasha? Someone had told him that Tony isn’t always cold, he can be warm, friendly, charismatic when he puts his mind to it –  
   
“Are you listening?” Tony interrupts. The sun is in his eyes, and he’s squinting.  
   
“I’m – sure. Yeah, of course.”  
   
“Oh really? What did I just say?”  
   
Bucky’s mind is blank. “Uh,” he says intelligently.  
   
“It’s fine, I’m just teasing.” Tony smiles, warm. “I’m probably boring you, I know. I bore everyone.”  
   
“You don’t bore me.”  
   
“You’ve never heard me talk. Not really. I gossip, and Steve hates that. Or I talk work, and I can see he’s trying really hard to understand but – he doesn’t.” Tony sighs. “Obie hated me talking. He would go to – great lengths, to shut me up. And Ross isn’t too keen either.”  
   
“I am,” Bucky says, maybe too eager, too desperate to press his point. “I would, I mean. I would listen to you.”  
   
“I’m sure you would,” Tony says, with a slightly smug smile. “But then – when was the last time you got laid?”  
   
“What?!”  
   
“Sorry, that was rude. I just meant – you would listen to me now, sure, but that’s because you know it would make me happy, and I don’t think you’ve _had_ anyone in a long time. I smelt you, that day at spa. And – now.”  
   
Jesus, he’s probably been sending out cutesy little _loveloveFUCK_ scents all this time, and Tony’s just politely not mentioned it. “It’s not – not that I can’t,” Bucky says, because it feels very important that he gets this point across, “I just haven’t met anyone. And I’ve been busy, and – indoors, a lot. It’s _not_ that I can’t do it, I _can._ I’m very capable. Very.” He tries puffing up his chest, but Tony is laughing. It’s not mean laughter. It’s sweet.  
   
“I don’t doubt it,” he says kindly, reaching up a hand to pat down Bucky’s hair. “I’m just teasing again. I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”  
   
“You don’t have to. I don’t mind.”  
   
Tony’s almost eye to eye with him. Bucky looks down, quickly, and sees that he’s standing on his toes, like a bird about to take flight. He giggles, loses his balance, and his hands catch Bucky’s shirt. “Sorry,” he says, and then glances up at him.  
   
Under lashes, brown eyes, half-lidded. _Is he flirting with me? No. No, you’re just desperate, Barnes. That’s all. He wouldn’t do that, not with Steve, not with all these people right here –_  
   
“A little close for comfort, don’t you think Tony?”  
   
Tony’s scent sours. He stands, rolling his eyes. “Husband,” he says flatly. “Aren’t you supposed to be whoring?”  
   
“’ _Aren’t you supposed to be whoring’,”_ Ross mimics in a childish voice. “Come on, we’re leaving.”  
   
“But I was just starting to have fun.”  
   
Ross flashes Bucky a glare, laced with something poisonous. “One cripple and a barren housewife. Fun,” he spits. “Get in the car.”  
   
Tony fixes his jaw and doesn’t look Bucky in the eye. Maybe the words hurt him more than he lets on. “You shouldn’t talk to him like that,” he says, turning.  
   
“Have a hit a nerve? Good. Hurry up, I have a dinner and you need to be back at the hotel.”  
   
“Coming, my dearest.” Tony smiles at him, one last time, except now he looks exhausted. “I’ll see you around, maybe. We’ll continue our talk.”  
   
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Ross says sourly.  
   
   
“You didn’t need to do that,” Tony snaps, climbing into the car. “You don’t need to be such an ass.”  
   
“Thank you,” Ross nods at the valet, taking his keys. “Tony, would you save this till we’re home?”  
   
“No,” he says stubbornly, “I want to talk about it now. What’s wrong with you? Has he hurt you in some way? I was just being _nice,_ why’d you have to call him a cripple, and scream out that I’m barren, do you know how _rude_ that is? Fucking hell, I think everyone heard, and now they’re all going to be talking about how – “  
   
“Would you shut up?”  
   
“No! Thadd, it looks bad if you say things like that in front of people!”  
   
“Oh, I see. So you’re acting purely out of concern for political career, is that it?”  
   
“I’m just saying that these are all things that can bite you in the ass – “  
   
“You shouldn’t get so close to him,” Ross grumbles. “ _That_ is what looks bad.”  
   
Tony’s lost for words. “What? I was just – we were just talking – “  
   
“Talking, laughing. Putting your hands all over him. Everyone already thinks you’re a slut, Stark. Don’t give them any more reason to judge.” He steps on the gas and pulls out the drive. “Plus, I don’t want to have to keep bringing this up, but children have yet to materialise. You _promised_ you were fertile. And yet here we are.”  
   
“Thadd.” Tony rests his hand on his arm, tries to be gentle. “You know more than I how badly I want kids. You think it doesn’t – kill me, to see Nick there? You think I don’t want that?”  
   
“I don’t doubt you do. I’m starting to think you wants Barnes’ cock up your ass more than mine.”  
   
Tony explodes, spluttering. “What?! Are you – deviant? What the fuck is wrong with you, why would you even – “  
   
“It’s alright,” Ross says, eyes on the road. “I get it. He’s young, you’re young, you only have me for company. _I get it._ But you can’t do that. Because people are watching us, people are watching _you,_ and if our base finds out I have an – unruly bitch for a wife, we tank in the ratings. Tony, if I catch any word, or even a _whiff_ that you’ve been doing something improper behind my back – I’ll kill you.”  
   
He means it, Tony thinks. No one would blame him if he did.  
   
“I’m not interested in Barnes. I don’t care for him. I was just being nice.” Lie? Maybe.  
   
“I don’t care. Watch yourself. Do you understand?”  
   
“I – “ Tony decides it’s not worth fighting over. “Sure, I understand. You don’t embarrass me, I won’t embarrass you.”  
   
“Fine.”  
   
“Fine.”  
   
Tension. Tony crosses his arms and stares out the window at the rolling countryside. “And I mean it,” he adds. “You can’t talk to him like that. The way you acted at my birthday, the things you said – it’s not pleasant. He isn’t your punching bag.”  
   
“He killed your parents.”  
   
“And you voted in legislation to strip me of my basic rights and bodily autonomy. Sometimes people do things, and it’s not their fault, and they don’t have a choice, or they just make a mistake, and you can choose to get over it or let it linger, and fester like a wound.”  
   
Ross meets his eyes in the mirror. “And what about you,” he asks, “do you let what I did fester?”  
   
He seems genuinely curious. “It doesn’t matter,” Tony mutters. “What I think about you doesn’t matter. You own me regardless. I don’t get a choice either way.”  
   
“Well, isn’t that truth,” Ross agrees, and he’s smiling something ugly in the rearview mirror.  
   
“What?” Tony asks flatly. “What now.”  
   
“Isn’t Nick just lovely,” Ross says, fixing back on the road. “Expecting like he is, so excited.”  
   
“Yeah, I guess.”  
   
“You know, it’s a wonder you don’t want that for yourself.”  
   
Dangerous territory. Edge him away. Supplicate if you have to. “I do,” Tony says, not quite lying. “You know I do.”  
   
“And yet, how many months now. How many heats.”  
   
“Thadd, you know I can’t actually control – “  
   
“Of course you can’t,” Ross agrees, cutting him off. “But I think it’s time we saw a professional. Neither of us are getting any younger. You always think there’s more time, until there isn’t.”  
   
Tony opens his mouth, shuts it again. “I’m not sure we need to waste money on – “  
   
“Money? You’re acting like money is an issue for us.”  
   
Tony tries again. “I would really like – to conceive naturally. I think it’s the best way – “  
   
“I don’t know if you can conceive naturally, Tony.”  
   
“Well – some more time then,” Tony asks, not quite pleading but getting there. “Just a while longer – three more heats, and after three more heats, if I haven’t – “  
   
“People are starting to talk,” he says, voice laden with – something heavy. Not quite a threat, but getting there. “They’re starting to question why I haven’t managed to breed one on you yet. _Me._ As if it’s my fault.”  
   
Alpha’s are so touchy about potency. Obie bounced Tony’s head off the wall when he suggested maybe he was the one at fault. “Three more heats,” Tony states. “Just three. And after that – you’re right. I’ll try whatever you want.”  
   
Ross grunts. “And you won’t cause a stir? Or get stubborn?”  
   
“No. Never, no. Whatever you want, Thadd.”  
   
“Good. Good boy,” Ross says grudgingly. “I knew you’d come round.”  
   
“I always do.”  
   
   
Alone in the hotel room, Tony thinks of Steve.  
   
He thinks of Steve’s hot kisses, and gentle touches, his hand on his neck and in his hair. A bed, leg entwined, fingers gripping his wrists and –  
   
Soft brown eyes and lanky hair, a sharp jaw, a –  
   
 _Blue_ eyes, Steve has blue eyes, and he a kind face, and he –  
   
Would make Tony feel things he’d never felt, with an arm of metal, biting along his neck and taking him, rough, brutal against the bed, all that awkwardness shed like a second skin, and then –  
   
 _Steve,_ Tony, think of Steve, Steve would –  
   
Take over, pass him from alpha to alpha, share him like he’s meant to be shared, pleasure him together, like he deserves to be pleasured, and then both would hold him, perfect and right and warm, and no one would ever –  
   
Fantasy is fantasy, Tony tells himself, panting, chest heaving, hand splattered with his spend. _This must be what happens,_ he thinks, panicky. _When you touch yourself, you start to think of – all kinds of wrong things. Maybe the literature was right on this one._  
   
Or maybe not. Nothing wrong with two alphas and their omega, it’s just – no. No it’s wrong. It’s practically adultery, and Tony should stop this. He needs to stop pleasuring himself like every day is heat. He has other things to worry about instead of mooning about like a lovesick puppy. He has plans to make. How to fake a pregnancy, mainly.  
   
He takes a shower, cold, to wash away the stink of what he just did. _Pathetic,_ Obie is telling him. He always hears his faults in Obie’s voice. _Lock you in a cage, that’ll take care of that._ He tries not to think about it. He won’t touch himself again. Back on the straight and narrow. Keep moving forward, don’t look back. Focus on the future. Focus on –  
   
It’s starts like a fizzing, a numbness and tingling on the side of his head. He hadn’t even realised how tightly he was holding his shoulders, how _nervous_ he felt, and then the tingling intensifies, and he’s convinced he’s having a stroke, or a heart attack, or – something. Panic in his head, and in his chest. He’s struggling to breathe. He’s crying, also, and by the time the panic fades, he’s on the floor of the shower, sobbing. Why is crying? _Stop crying,_ he tells himself, _stop!_  
   
Pathetic, so fucking pathetic, but – he slams his fist into the wet tiles over, and over, over, until the pain is sharp and blood is running into the drain. It’s not enough, he wants to scream.  
   
But fucking hell. Even in his moment of weakness, and even in his moment of absolute dissolution, he’s not really able to let go. He stumbles to the rack, bundles up the towels, and screams and screams and screams into them until his throat is raw and he’s too tired to go on.  
   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, are people still reading this? Sorry it's so late. I've been busy, etc. Still plowing on with this! I start uni soon (again) so might not be updating weekly anymore. :(
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy, and i love to hear your thoughts on how it's going!


	13. Chapter 13

This time, there’s no urgency. The fucking is slow, and sweet. Steve finishes inside him, and Tony feels smoothed out, calmed, less like he’s blurring at the edges and falling apart at the seams.  
   
“Did you like that?” Steve asks lazily, smacking his lips. “Was it… good?”  
   
“You’re always good,” Tony smiles, and he presses a kiss to Steve’s jaw, slight, soft. Steve loves it, he knows Steve does. That’s why he does it. Steve always gives him what he wants when he gets snuggly.  
  
Tony isn’t a very snuggly person by nature. Maybe he was, once. He likes all the comfort cuddles, but at the end of the day, he’d rather sleep curled at the foot of your bed than in your arms. Maybe it’s because Obie was always so cold. It doesn’t matter, now.  
   
Steve loves them, though, loves the touch, and the… togetherness. So when he wants something –  
   
No, that’s not how to phrase it. When he wants Steve to be happy, so not to upset him with what he’s about to say, he makes sure to throw in extra cuddles. He doesn’t know if Steve’s clocked yet. He hopes not.  
   
“Actually, I have – a proposition, I guess.”  
   
“Yes, Tony, I will marry you.”  
   
He throws a pillow at Steve’s face. “Cute. I wouldn’t get ahead of yourself.”  
   
“Okay. So what is it?”  
   
“I want to have a baby.”  
   
Steve is – he doesn’t look as happy as Tony thought he would. “A baby,” he says slowly.  
   
“Sure. I figure – you know, I shouldn’t let this marriage stop me from – “  
   
“You’re married to Ross.”  
   
“Right. I realise that. Which is exactly why – “  
   
“A baby? With me?”  
   
“Yes, of course with you! Who else – “  
   
“So… it could be raised by Ross.”  
   
“I mean – I figure Ross will be out of the picture in a few years. I don’t know, I haven’t worked out the details – “  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, in his quiet voice. Oh boy. Tony’s in for a treat.  
   
“What?”  
   
“I am – not going to… impregnate you so Ross can steal my baby. Our baby.”  
   
“He won’t.”  
   
Steve is shaking his head. Why is he shaking his head? No, no, _Steve,_ this is a good idea. “This is a terrible idea, Tony.”  
   
“Well if you have any better ones, I’m all ears,” he snaps, turning away.  
   
“Why? Why now? Tony, I can’t – “  
   
“He wants a baby. He wants to know why I’m not pregnant yet, so – whatever. He says, if I don’t conceive soon, he’s going to start IVF, and then I won’t have a choice, and they’ll probably pick up on the birth control in my bloodwork, and then I’m fucked. So you see – I need a baby, Steve. Preferably yours, but at this point I’m not picky. Maybe Barnes will knock me up, at least he’d be grateful for it – “  
   
“Tony!”  
   
“What?! It’s just the truth. It’s fine,” Tony says carelessly, standing. “I guess you’ll just let Ross find out the truth, put a baby in me, and then send me away once he’s got what he wants. What does it matter, it’s not like you care – “  
   
Hand on his wrist. Threat? _No,_ Tony tells himself, _it’s just Steve._ But his eyes are cold, not quite with fury, but something not nice, not good, Tony’s stomach twists uncomfortably and he bares his neck without really thinking about it, swallowing hard.  
   
“You can be really – manipulative, sometimes, did you know that?”  
   
He swallows again. “Yes,” he admits.  
   
Steve lets him go. “I’m not going to put a child in you,” he says, blunt, efficient. “Not when you’re married to him. Have you asked yourself what might happen if the baby comes out blonde and freakishly big? If questions might not be asked?”  
   
Tony is banking on Ross being too overjoyed to care. “I would wiggle around it.”  
   
“And have you figured out _how_ I’m going to do it? Last I checked, you’re not in heat, and Ross won’t be happy if he finds – “  
   
“A dose of Pregnocil will fix that. All I would need is three nights – “  
   
“You haven’t thought this through.”  
   
“I’m _desperate.”_  
   
“Leave with me,” Steve says simply. “Get in the car with me and let’s drive away. By the time he realises you’re gone, it’ll be too late, and we’ll be safe. Leave with me,” Steve says again, earnestly, taking Tony’s hand. “Please.”  
   
He’s shaking his head. He hates himself, but still, he shakes his head.  
   
   
Tony knows it’s coming, because it starts with a looseness in his belly, like his insides are sloshing around. He kicks off his sheets in the night, buries his head in his pillow. By morning, he’s wet, and can’t manage the stairs from his bedroom, so Ross and John lever him down like a piece of large furniture.  
   
Ross is methodical, as per usual.  
   
Five days later, Tony is finished. He knows there will be no pregnancy.  
   
He’s running out of time.  
   
   
Still, in the time it took Tony to fuck himself silly, Nick has delivered his own precious bundle of joy. A girl, Ross tells him. This is code for _disappointment,_ because even if the girl is alpha she’ll never be worth the same as an alpha male in Warren’s eyes. “I wouldn’t care,” Ross says carefully, while Tony packs his bag for another rally. “I wouldn’t care what kind of child we had.”  
   
And he eyes Tony’s belly, like he should already be showing signs.  
   
“You’ll need to go and see the baby,” Ross commands. “Don’t think that because I’m not here you can just shirk off. God knows I already don’t ask much of you.”  
   
“I’ll visit,” Tony says, tiredly. He’s exhausted. Five days with no sleep, and Ross wanted him to pack his luggage. He wants him gone, if only so he can pass out on the couch and spend three days in his workshop without showering. “I should bring a gift.”  
   
“Hmm,” Ross agrees. “I’m no good at that. Go yourself and don’t skimp on the price.”  
   
“Warren won’t be there with Nick, I suppose.”  
   
“Why would he be? The man has a wife to help for a reason.”  
   
“Nothing. I just thought he might want to see his child.”  
   
Ross shrugs. “I suppose it doesn’t mean much when it’s number twenty. And another girl.”  
   
   
When Tony arrives at Warren’s land, Nick’s lying up in bed surrounded by blankets and flowers, but there’s a crazed look in his eyes. “Tony!” He calls, trying to sit up. “Tony, thank God you’re here – you need to tell them, you need to explain – “  
   
“Explain what?”  
   
“It’s my baby! It’s _my_ baby,” Nick says frantically, “she won’t let me hold her! It’s my baby, and my baby shower, and it’s not _safe,_ there’s – bacteria, and she needs me, not Mary.”  
   
Mary? Who the fuck is – Of Warren! Mary of Warren. It’s her name, Tony remembers. He opens his mouth, closes it again. “Okay,” he says, simply. “Would you like some cake?”  
   
Nick nods. “I love cake,” he says, automatically. “I want – chocolate, please. Not too much, or it will make me fat. I need to lose the baby weight now.”  
   
“You’re young,” Tony says, plating up a slice from table with the pretty white tablecloth. “It’ll go soon. Treat yourself.”  
   
“Thank you, Tony. You’re such a good friend,” Nick says earnestly, “you’re always so kind to me, no one is kind to me like you. Could you – could you get Bella?”  
   
“Ann.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“The baby – your baby. Her name is Ann.”  
   
“That’s what I said.”  
   
Tony decides not to labour the point. He despises pack families. The head bitch, snatching up the children, sending away the carriers like they’re chattel.  Once the job is done, another mouth to feed, the omegas are forgotten. At least, until the alpha decides he wants another. He finds Bitc – Mary, surrounded by doting Os, holding the baby like she owns it, which she does. “Mary,” he says, calmly. “Nick said the baby wants a feed.”  
   
“She’s been fed.”  
   
“Well, he wants to see her again, just in case.” Tony lowers his voice, lowers his eyes. “You know how new moms can be,” he whispers. “Just indulge it.”  
   
Tony’s trying to be nice. He’s trying to be reasonable.  
   
Mary laughs, high, sharp. “Oh, Tony,” she says loudly, so everyone will hear. “I’m not sure I can trust you to hold this baby – not after last time!”  
   
Sniggers. Tony just waits. “He wants the baby,” he says bluntly. “If not, he’ll cause a scene. Do you want a scene?”  
   
“I don’t know. Are you going to steal my baby?” She bounces her slightly, wraps her arms tighter round the poor thing’s little body.  
   
Tony considers giving up. He’s not that invested. He doesn’t really care _what_ Mary of Warren wants, or Nick. He doesn’t need to embarrass himself like this, or have his past thrown back in his face.  
   
 _You used to be a hero, not a housewife,_ the ugly part of his brain sneers. _You went toe to toe with demi-gods and aliens, and now you attend baby showers and hang about at the fringes. You’re pathetic._  
   
“She’s not your baby,” Tony says, without thinking, the words automatic. A few of the omegas shuffle uncomfortably. Mary keeps staring him down. And then baby Ann starts to cry.  
   
“Hungry,” Tony says, helpfully. “I told you so. Here, let me give her to her carrier.”  
   
If looks could kill. The baby is crying, clearly needing it’s real mother, and Mary stares at Tony like he’s a piece of gum under her shoe. She resents having to bow to him on anything, obviously. “Don’t run away with her,” she sneers. “I’ll be checking. Last thing we need is for you to steal another baby, we _all_ know your history.”  
   
Ann is small, and soft. Tony tries not to think about how she quietly gurgles in his arms, waves little hands in the air. Not his baby, not his problem. He’s doing this for Nick, no one else.  
   
“Oh Tony,” Nick cries, “you’re such a hero. You’re the best. You’re my – my best friend. You’re so good to me always, I wish – I wish I could live with you all the time. Me and Bella.”  
   
“Ann.”  
   
“Wouldn’t that be nice? Tony? Wouldn’t it?”  
   
“It – yeah,” Tony agrees, if only to shut him up. “It would be great.” He levers the baby back down in Nick’s arms and tries not to feel sickened at the clear show of devotion. Tony’s never held a live baby to his chest like that, not one of his own. Poor number three had died before he could even draw breath –  
   
The ache is heavier today.  
   
“Stay with me,” Nick pleads, nursing his baby. “Talk to me. I want – you’re so funny Tony, I bet you could make me laugh.”  
   
“I’m not really in the mood, Nick.”  
   
“Please,” he insists, with that strange desperate look in his eyes. “If you’re here – they won’t take Bella again. Please, Tony – you know what it’s like, don’t you? You know, you understand – “  
   
 _You used to be so strong,_ Tony thinks to himself. _Why have you let them do this to you?_  
   
“I’m not much good at helping myself anymore, let alone others.”  
   
But Nick looks like he won’t be deterred. “He has sleepovers,” he blurts.  
   
Tony looks up, tired. He’s tired, that’s all. He wants to be kind to Nick, he really does. “Who has sleepovers?”  
   
Nick looks around, furtive, and curls his baby closer to his chest. “Christopher. _Warren.”_  
   
“Sleepovers with who, Nick?” Tony knows Warren likes to frequent omegas of the night. Nick wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. Sometimes they’ve had their first heat, sometimes... he gives them verses to learn at Sunday school and likes to test them at night. Alone. In his bedroom.” Nick looks terrified. “Sometimes they’re _married._ Sometimes – “  
   
A sick, uneasy sensation in his stomach. Clammy fingers on his neck, in his mouth, sticky and rancid. “Has no one stopped him? No one’s said anything?”  
   
“Stopped him?” Nick says, and he shakes himself, sits back up. “Stop what? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he babbles, “I don’t know, I don’t know. Do you want cake? I was going to get cake…”  
   
Tony doesn’t want this burden. Not on top of everything.  
   
“Omegas?” He says, shutting his eyes, shutting down his brain. “Nick are you saying – he touches omegas?”  
   
Nick looks so scared. _He’s braver than me,_ Tony thinks. Even though he stinks of stress and newborn nerves, and even though Warren has worn through his mind, he’s still trying to do something he thinks is right. Still trying to tell someone he thinks he can trust. “The alphas let him. They say – it’s fine, or pretend they don’t know. But I know, I’ve seen – and Mary. She hates it. But if someone knew, someone, someone _powerful –_ “  
   
“I’m not powerful.”  
   
“You are,” Nick says, in all his wide-eyed naivety. “You _are._ You’re Iron Man, I used to see you on TV – “  
   
Tony stands. “Not anymore. And only on Ross’s order. I don’t get to fly out without explicit permission and a fucking grand injunc – “  
   
“I think – I knew before. But I wouldn’t say, I wouldn’t tell. He hits me,” Nick blurts, and he speeds up, desperate to say his part before Tony flees, shamefully. “He hits us if we don’t – if we say things. But I think now – I worry that with Bella – “  
   
“Ann.”  
   
“When she’s older – he’s such a bad man – “  
   
 _Jesus,_ Tony thinks, _am I going to do this?_  
   
He clears his throat. “Nick, I – I’m really sorry.”  
   
Nick tries to sit up, baby still swaddled in his arms. “Don’t be,” he says, “I know Ross can be hard on you, I understand, Warren is bad to me too – “  
   
 _You’re going to regret this._ “I’m – hey, can I let you in on a secret?”  
   
Nick’s eyes widen. “A secret?”  
   
“Sure. It’s important, though. Seriously, you can’t tell anyone. Not Warren, not Mary, not even Bella, not even quietly at night. You can never ever say it out loud.”  
   
“I won’t,” Nick swears. “I promise. Tony I am – so good at keeping secrets, and you’re my best friend – “  
   
Ah fuck. That’s it. It’s the earnestness. The desperation. Tony is such a fucking sentimental fool. “I’m going to run away,” he says.  
   
He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s crazy talk. Maybe it’s because Ross is gone and Steve is here and Warren is a monster. Maybe it’s because he genuinely wants to help Nick, and baby Bella, and they won’t make it on their own. He’s giddy at the thought of it, plan formulating while he sits there, by the bed. “Run away?” Nick says. “How? With who? Can I come?”  
   
“You can come,” Tony says indulgently. “Bella can come too. Or I’ll go, and I’ll get proof about Warren, and then you can join us. Or I’ll – “ Tony laughs, low and light, like a child pulling a prank, “I’ll kill him,” he giggles, and Nick’s eyes go wide, and he giggles too.  
   
“But Ross,” Nick says, “he wouldn’t let you go. Would he?”  
   
“No. But there are places where if you’re omega, you can just get divorced. Like an alpha, or something. It doesn’t even matter what reason, as long as you just want to get divorced. Like in Wakanda. I’m going to go to Wakanda,” and the plan is forming in his mind, “I’ll get divorced, and I’ll marry – someone else.”  
   
“Where’s that?”  
   
“Hmm?” Tony had been distracted. He’s picturing a green forest, open mansion, a quick ceremony and then all the time in the world to lie in bed with Steve without fear, or threat. All that power, back at his fingertips. Wouldn’t it be amazing? “Wakanda? It’s – in Africa. You know, it’s a country.”  
   
“I’ve never heard of it.”  
   
“Doesn’t matter. You can go to Wakanda, Nick. You can still work at kindgarten in Wakanda, even if you’re not married. Licenses don’t exist.”  
   
“So how do you know if you’re allowed to do something or not?”  
   
“You’re just _allowed._ No one even cares if you’re omega.”  
   
“Do they – have college?”  
   
“They do. And it’s always warm. And I’ve heard the food is great, too.”  
   
“Warm? Like the beach?”  
   
“Like a jungle.”  
   
Nick’s eyes light up. “I’ve never been on vacation,” he says, rocking the baby in his arms. “Maybe – can we go? Both of us, on vacation?”  
   
“We can,” Tony says, and it’s crystallised in his head. Why is he here? If idiots want Warren to be their leader, let them have him, it’s not Tony’s business. Why is he trying to protect these people from themselves when he could be _free,_ free of Warren, free of Ross, free of his awful heats and claustrophobic manse. He could be free again, like he used to be –  
   
 “Bella can’t fly yet,” Nick is musing. “Not for ages. But after. Promise me after? Tony that would – so good. It would be so good and – so nice if – “  
   
Tony needs to see Steve. He needs to tell him what he’s decided. No more Warren, no more Ross, no more any of it. No more heats with thick fingers and sweaty hands and paunch bellies, and no more having to bear a child he doesn’t want to have. Leave them all to it, good riddance, it’s not Tony’s job anymore, he’s had enough.  
   
“Wait!” Nick calls out. “You’ll come for me, definitely. You won’t forget. Bella and I – we need you. I can’t stay here anymore, not now that I’ve had the baby, he’ll hit me again and I can’t – you won’t let. You won’t.”  
   
“I won’t,” Tony swears, and he means it. He means it, honestly, truly, deep in his bones, and that’s what matters most.  
   
   
   
Tony should really know better.  
   
This is excessive, but he hasn’t been able to get Steve from his mind. Steve’s hands, his tongue, the luxury of a week. It’s the closest Tony’s been to freedom in a year.  
   
“Never leave,” Tony says against his chest, letting Steve stroke him nape to ass, full-bodied things. “Promise you’ll never leave me again.”  
   
“I promise,” Steve says easily, because those sorts of oaths are easy for him to believe. “I swear.”  
   
Tony kisses him, quick, and pulls back. “I want to leave,” he whispers. “I want to run away. You said we could, you told we could go to Wakanda, remember? Now, I – want to. No more Ross, no more baby, let’s just – run away.”  
   
Steve’s eyes widen, just slightly. Surprised? Happy? Tony can’t tell. _Tony’s_ happy. He finally knows. And he’s finally going to be free. And Steve –  
   
Isn’t smiling. He’s got a furrow between his brows. Uh oh. Come on, Steve. Now isn’t the time to be picky.  
   
“What.” Tony says, flatly. “What’s the matter. You said to me – you _told_ me. Last time we met, you said ‘let’s run away’. You said, get in the car with me, I’ll drive us away, you said that, you _promised.”_  
   
“I didn’t promise. That’s not – the point, no, Tony, I just mean – why the sudden change of heart?”  
   
He’s being honest, maybe. Tony can’t quite sniff it out. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, twirling his finger around Steve’s clavicle. “I just don’t want to be here anymore. Nick – you know, Nick? Of Warren? He said Warren will start beating him again now that he’s had the baby. And I don’t want – to _be_ the second consort of the USA. I don’t want to have Ross’s kid, I just – think if I left now, if I ran, like the coward I am, it would be better.”  
   
“You’re not a coward,” Steve says softly. “How could you ever say that?”  
   
Tony smiles, wry. “Steve,” he says, smirking slightly. “My game strategy tends to be to just roll over and let people do want they want.”  
   
“And?” Steve responds, strangely defensive. “And what? You’re alive, aren’t you? You’re still here, still kicking. Still fighting. So what, you endure. And you built armor so you could fight back – “  
   
“And let them take it from me.”  
   
“You didn’t _let_ them. Jesus, Tony, even I can’t stop people from doing terrible shit to me, to you. Sometimes we don’t win, it doesn’t make us weak. Or cowards.”  
   
“It’s easy to say that when _you_ always win.”  
   
“I don’t.”  
   
Tony smiles again, this time bitter. “You do,” he says. “From my perspective – you do.”  
   
“I don’t know what you mean.” Steve smells hurt, a little. Tony feels bad. He kisses along his jaw to make up for it.  
   
“Nothing. Just that – I have to work a little harder to win, is all. I didn’t mean anything by it, ignore me.”  
   
“I hate when you do that,” Steve grumbles. “Placate me.”  
   
“Hmm? Would you rather I shouted at you?”  
   
“No. Just that you wouldn’t – “ Steve’s eyes flick back to his. “But then, that’s how you do it,” he says sadly. “That’s how you get by.”  
   
“That, and I like to think you’re good in bed.”  
   
“Does Ross think so?”  
   
“Don’t be jealous,” Tony chides. “It’s not a nice look on you.”  
   
Steve sighs, deep, and sinks deeper against the headboard. His hands slot so nicely around Tony’s waist, large, sturdy, dependable. Tony lets his fingers rest on Steve’s chest, tightens his thighs where he’s straddling his middle. “You know,” he says, creeping his fingers along Steve’s collarbone, “if we ran away, I could marry you. Then and there.”  
   
“You’d need to be divorced first.”  
   
“Please, don’t ruin my daydream.”  
   
“Tony, if you want to go, I’ll go.”  
   
“You mean that?”  
   
Tony’s voice breaks slightly, suddenly. It’s not that he thought Steve would refuse him, he just – it’s hard to think that maybe, this will really happen. Together, both of them. Just the two of them, free, to do what they want, live how they please –  
   
“We’ll need to plan. So many logistics to cover. T’Challa would welcome us, but there’s the matter of getting Warren indicted, or it’s all for nothing. And it’s not just us, we’d have to smuggle Natasha, Bucky. Clint has a family to think about – “  
   
“Leave them,” Tony says, easily. “We don’t need to involve them, we – can come back for them. Let’s just leave, let them hold fort, and when I’m finally Of Rogers – “  
   
Steve gently bats Tony’s hand from his chest. “Tony,” he says, and his voice is ready to chide, “we can’t just up and leave without any plan at all.”  
   
“You said we could.”  
   
“I was – what I meant was I wanted to take you away. I didn’t think you would agree. I have a plan in place, but it takes time to execute – “  
   
“ – Because you’re including the team.”  
   
“Aren’t you?!”  
   
Tony swallows. “I – yeah. Of course.”  
   
And now Steve looks concerned. “Tony… you always wanted to keep up together, more than anything. You were the one who told me we need to put aside our personal problems for the team. For what we represent, for what we do. If we can’t – “  
   
“But you didn’t,” Tony says, slowly, deliberately. He desperately tries to keep his voice light. “Remember? I said that, and then you left with Bucky anyway. And left me.”  
   
He keeps his eyes trained on a freckle near Steve’s left nipple. _Avoid confrontation, eyes down, sweeten the deal if you can._ It’s what he knows, it’s how he’s learnt.  
   
A brief silence. “I did,” Steve concedes. “I… would avoid it again if I could. Because bad things happen when we’re apart.”  
   
“Bad things happen to me,” Tony says quietly. “Sorry, I’m being selfish. It’s not all about what I want, I know that. But if I don’t go soon… I’ll have another heat. And then another. And then it’s game over, because he’s taking me to a doctor. I’ll need to be off the meds for at least a week before, and – I’ll have to have his.”  
   
The thought repulses him suddenly, makes him shudder. “You don’t know,” he accuses, suddenly vicious. “It’s alright for you, you’re not sacrificing anything. I have to _sleep_ with him, not you. I had to – “ Tony cuts himself off. It’s better not too play your hand too soon in these situations.  
   
“Hey, hey,” Steve soothes. “I know. Fucking – I know, Tony, _please._ The election’s not for four more months – and Kellar could still win. Everyone says he’s a revolutionary, he’s polling – “  
   
“He won’t win.” Tony knows it in his stomach. Good things like that don’t happen to him. “Warren will. Ross will be VP, I’ll be a nice – trained monkey, pop out some kids and spend the rest of my life – “  
   
“You won’t.”  
   
“I will. Because you won’t leave with me. And so here I am.”  
   
“I will leave with you. I always was going to leave with you. But we need time. Give me – three months.”  
   
“Three months?” Tony scoffs. “I’ll be pregnant by then. And there’s no way Ross won’t be dragging me out for campaigning towards the end, you’ll never sneak me out.”  
   
“Two months, then. Please Tony, be reasonable.”  
   
“I am. I’m finally seeing sense. Take me away. Let’s leave. I don’t care anymore, about anyone, about this country or the people or the team, I just – I _want_ to be selfish, understand? Let me be selfish. For once in my life, I’m just going to take what I want and you’re going to have to go along with me, not the other way round.”  
   
Steve is kissing Tony’s knuckles. “You deserve to be happy,” he agrees, quietly, but it’s not the same as saying he’s allowed to be selfish. “I want you to be happy. But I can’t leave tonight, or tomorrow, not without a plan. You know that. I _know,_ rationally, you know that. You’re shaken,” Steve notes, and Tony distantly thinks that’s true. “Something’s happened. You’ve seen something, someone’s said something to you… it’s alright. We don’t need to fight. We can talk tomorrow.”  
   
“No, we can’t.” Tony sits clambers off of Steve’s lap, and he can scent himself reeking of shame. “It’s fine. Whatever. I shouldn’t have accosted you, you need to time think, fine. I can deal with it. Endure it, whatever, I just – “ Tony tugs on a shirt, quickly throws on some pants. “We’ll talk next time.”  
   
“Next time? Hold on, Tony, Ross won’t even be home for a week. Stay awhile, tell me about the baby shower – “  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony bites out, stupidly sullen. He feels like a child whose parents have forgotten their birthday. He feels deflated. He had let himself get caught up in a daydream, stupidly let Nick get caught up in it too. It’s cruel, really. And careless.  
   
“Well when will I see you again?” Steve asks, shuffling to the side of the bed. “Next week? Week after?”  
   
“Don’t know,” Tony says shortly. “Maybe we should wait. Election is in four months, maybe then. I don’t know.”  
   
“Four months?! Tony!”  
   
“I’m going to be pregnant soon,” Tony says, word like vomit in his mouth. “You’re not going to be able to fuck me then. We should stop this before it’s too late.”  
   
“Too late? Tony, I want to leave with you. I want to! Please, don’t be unreasonable – don’t _do_ this, this manipulating – “  
   
“I’m not manipulating.”  
   
“You _are,”_ Steve pleads, taking his hands. “You are. Maybe you don’t realise, but – Tony, two months. Just give me two months, then. Time is all I need, a plan is all we need, and then we can go, and never look back. You know we need a plan, you would never, _ever_ let us go without a plan – “  
   
“Because your plans always work so well,” Tony sneers, blurting it cruelly before he can think. “Last time, you had a great plan to leave me and fly off with your friends, and you return unscathed while I share a bed with – a monster every month. A plan like that? Is _that_ what you need time for?”  
   
“I need time,” Steve says fiercely, “so we never do that again. So we’re not left, divided, in a fucking bunker, scratching out a plan in the snow. Understand? This is what a relationship is, it’s compromise – “  
   
“Ah,” Tony says knowingly, “I’m so glad I have the wise and knowledgeable Steven Rogers to instruct me on exactly how relationships work, me, who has been married twice and betrothed three times – “  
   
“Tony, you’re – your past relationships aren’t exactly models on how best to do things.” Steve is getting frustrated, Tony can hear it in his voice, see it in the set of his teeth. “I don’t want to fight. Not now. I want to leave, but I want to do it properly. If you don’t – “  
   
“I wish,” Tony snarls, hands pushing against Steve’s shoulders, “I _wish_ I could be as selfish as you. I _want to be selfish._ I don’t care about plans, or sense, or what’s right, I want to _go._ With you, because I love you. And I don’t want – his _hands_ on me anymore. Fucking hell, if I had been born alpha – “  
   
Tony is struck by a sudden feeling of dread. He thinks, if he stays there much longer, he’ll say something he regrets. Irreparable. Steve’s eyes are wide, he scents strange, like exhaustion, or fear. Slowly, Tony removes his hands from Steve’s shirt.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he says levelly. “I didn’t mean to shout.”  
   
“Tony.”  
   
“I – I’ll see you soon, alright? Not four months, sooner. Sorry, I – got caught up in a daydream. I think sometimes I’m losing my grip, you know? Not like me to get so…” Tony can’t think of what to say. “Caught up,” he finishes, lamely.  
   
“You should stay,” Steve says quietly. “We can talk things through, properly.”  
   
“No. No I should go. John worries,” Tony lies. “Don’t want to cause a scene. I – yeah.”  
   
Steve kisses him, gently, softly. It feels good, reassuring. Tony is reminded that the fact they can even have this argument is a luxury. “Just get me out,” he says, into Steve’s neck. “I’m so tired, Steve. I just want out, okay? Work on something, take your time, but get me out. I want to be happy.”  
   
   
It’s the early hours when Tony finally makes it back to the house.  
   
John is standing in the hallway. He takes Tony’s bags, he takes his coat. “What’s wrong,” Tony says, snide, “you’re looking more morose than usual.”  
   
“He’s back,” John says flatly. “He wants to know where you’ve been.” John takes one, surreptitious sniff. “And you stink of _him.”_  
   
Tony’s heart drops into his stomach. He’s dizzy, suddenly, feeling light-headed, feeling like his body doesn’t exist. “John,” he whispers, turning. “I need to go. Tell him – tell him I wasn’t – “  
   
“Tony,” Ross calls, from the kitchen. He drags out the ‘o’, rolls it over his tongue. “Sweetheart. Come and greet me, please.”  
   
“Coming!” Tony calls, and hopes he voice doesn’t sound too tremulous. “I just need to – “ He’s clean, he _had_ cleansed, but he thought he’d have more time, another night at least, to just – let it fade. “I have a bad stomach, I’m in the bathroom – “  
   
“No,” Ross says, “you can come and see me first, please.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” John says quietly, and he takes Tony’s arm, making sure he can’t bolt. “If I let you leave, he’ll kill me.”  
   
 _He won’t kill you,_ Tony thinks derisively, _he’ll fire you. You’ll lose your job. He might actually murder me._ Tony shrugs him off, because if he’s going to do this, it isn’t going to be while being lead in like an errant schoolboy.  
   
“Tony,” Ross smiles, tight. “I know, I know, you weren’t expecting me. Mary of Warren says you left hours ago, where have you been?”  
   
“Sure,” Tony says, crossing his arms, going for easy, casual. “I got caught up in my work. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again. Do you want a drink?” Tony moves across the floor, sets out two glasses, fetches some wine. Maybe he’s gotten away with it. Maybe, just maybe –  
   
“Work?” Ross asks. “You mean, at your workshop?”  
   
“Yeah. I used to do that, you know? Get started on something, check the time, and suddenly it’s morning.”  
   
Ross accepts the drink. “Sit,” he says, and Tony chooses a seat not too close, not too far. He watches his alpha sip. “John,” he says, “lock the door, please.”  
   
John shuts his eyes, briefly, then turns, moves out into the hallway. “Thadd?” Tony starts, trying to salvage it, salvage everything, “What’s wrong? Is there some kind of – “  
   
“Spare me,” Ross interjects. “You weren’t at your workshop. _I_ was at your workshop. So the question is, what are you hiding?”  
   
Tony swallows. _Think!_ His brain is screaming, _think on your feet, you fucking idiot!_ Sometimes, it’s better to tell a lie that’s closer to the truth. It may spare you in the long run. “Alright,” Tony says quietly. “I – am sorry for hiding it from you. I’ve been meeting Steve. Not often, just – God, Thadd,” Tony tries to make his scent go weepy and sad, “I’ve been so lonely. And after my birthday, I knew you wouldn’t let me – “  
   
Ross crooks his finger slightly, beckoning. “Come here,” he says, levelly. “I want to scent you.”  
   
 _I’m going to stink of Steve._  
   
“We cuddled,” Tony says, quickly. “I swear, that’s all. I don’t usually touch him at all, but I was so – sad, because Nick has just had his baby, and I wondered when _I_ was going to have a – “  
   
“Cut the crap, Tony,” Ross sneers. “Come here. If you were just _cuddling_ , I’ll know.”  
   
“Thaddeus. Alpha. I am – so sorry, for going behind your back, and if – if you want to punish me, or revoke some privileges, I understand. I was tempted, I’ll admit, but I never – “  
   
Ross lunges and fists his shirt in his fingers. “ _Shut. Up.”_ He says, teeth bared. “You just never stop talking, do you? And me, the idiot who got taken in. How many people have you lied to with that mouth, Tony?”  
   
He’s going to say something. He stops himself. Ross reeks of _angerangeranger._ He doesn’t want to provoke him anymore.  
   
“Show me your throat,” he demands, “chin back, _now._ Do it, Tony. Are you waiting for something? I’ll fucking break your neck if I have to.”  
   
Tony acquiesces. The truth belongs to him. Not matter what Ross scents, he can deny it. The truth belongs to him. _The truth belongs to him._  
   
Ross snarls, pushes him back, and Tony goes tumbling to the floor, sprawled on his side. “I knew it,” he spits, looming over him, fists balled. “ _I knew._ I knew a dirty little slut like you couldn’t – couldn’t keep it in their pants. Imagine, I’ve gone all these months without a single _fuck_ outside of heat just because you were too precious to let me in your bed, and I thought I would be kind, that I would make it easy – “  
   
 _He’s going to hit me,_ Tony thinks distantly, and curls himself into a ball. He knows the best position: hands curled round back of head, knees pulled to chest, covering the belly. There’s nothing worse than being kicked in the stomach. Tony lies there, balled, waiting for the inevitable blow that never comes.  
   
Instead, he hears Ross smashing plates, cutlery. Tony starts to edge away. If gets away now, he can pledge his innocence later; he just needs to step out of range of the hurricane and get himself to relative safety.  
   
“ _You,”_ Ross snarls, catching him by the nape. “I should – I should fucking rip you a new asshole.” He shakes him, and Tony bites. He can’t help, it’s a gut reaction, if you try and wrap your hand around his mouth he’s going to bite you, you can’t blame him.  
   
Ross doesn’t like it, though. Standard treatment for bratty omegas: on the floor, stress position. Face down, ass up, bracket the legs, hold them firm by the back of the neck. Let them tire themselves out. Let them scratch at the floor and howl, and snap their teeth and scream. Pinch nape if required. If you want, fuck them raw and knot them outside of heat, so it hurts like hell, and they’re too humiliated and fucked out to fight anymore.  
   
If you’re Obie, or any other garden variety sadist, slam their head into the floor until they bleed and drool onto the carpet. Or bite their nape so hard they pass out.  
   
Ross doesn’t do that. He just holds Tony there, firm. He’s strong, so strong, Tony always forgets. _He’s an old man!_ He thinks hysterically, _I should be wiping the floor with him!_  
   
“Are you quite done?” He drawls, one hand gripping Tony’s wrist and holding it to the floor. In his line of vision, and Tony can see where he’s bleeding, the thick part of his hand where the thumb starts. “Do you want to throw another tantrum? Or can we move on?”  
   
“Tantrum?” Tony grits, and Ross pushes his cheek into the cold kitchen tile. “And what am I supposed to think about the broken glass? Some good-old fashioned fun? Greek wedding style?”  
   
Ross growls in his ear, lets his fingers creep up to grip Tony’s hair and pull slightly. Ouch. “I would love to just – make you feel it, did you know that?”  
   
“Feel what?” Tony replies, insolent, although he knows what Ross means.  
   
“I would,” he threatens, and he pushes one knee between Tony’s legs. “I would. I’d do it, no matter what you wanted it. You wouldn’t be able to stop me.”  
   
“I wouldn’t,” Tony agrees. “You’re right. Go ahead, big boy. _Rape me.”_  
   
Ross’s scent recoils. “Ugh,” he says, letting up. “Like I’d want to touch anyway. God knows where your ass has been.”  
   
Tony rolls onto his back and sits up. “You’ve ruined my kitchen,” he states. “And my ass hasn’t been anywhere. I didn’t – “  
   
“Don’t lie to me,” Ross flares. “I swear to God, you will make this so much worse if you lie.”  
   
“I didn’t sleep with him.”  
   
“You’re _lying,_ Tony.”  
   
“I’m not,” he continues, because somewhere he knows that admitting his fault is worse than having Ross be angry at his duplicity. Worse for him, worse for Steve. “I was just lonely, is that so hard to believe?”  
   
Ross spins, hand raised. _He’sgoingtohitme,_ Tony thinks, and he ducks, flinches back, scurrying across the floor. The slap doesn’t come. Ross just stares down at him, hand still raised, ready to strike. “Look at me,” he hisses. “Look what you’ve made me do.”  
   
“I’m not making you do anything,” Tony manages, but he feels shaky. The ground here is rocky. He doesn’t know if he can talk his way out.  
   
“Get up,” Ross snarls. “Get up, now. Get up, you slut, _stand!”_  
   
He grabs him by the arm before Tony can rise. “You’re hurting me,” Tony grits, wrapping his fingers round Ross’s hand. “Fucking hell – lighten up!”  
   
“John!” Ross calls, near screaming. “John, come here!”  
   
“Ross, what are you – “ Tony tries to squirm free, accidentally treads on Ross’s toes, and the alpha fists a hand in his hair, one in his hair, one on his nap, _squeezes,_ and Tony is –  
   
Boneless. “Ablugh,” he manages, coherently, and stumbles where Ross pushes him.  
   
“John,” his alpha is saying levelly. “I need you to prepare the guest bedroom, please. And find the key, if you could.”  
   
“Wait,” Tony mumbles, “John, John – “ He’s pushed again, and he falls against the wall by the stairs, barely finding his balance. Ross isn’t deterred. He grabs him under his arms and drags him up, letting Tony’s limbs flop and bounce painfully against wooden floor.  
   
By the top of the stairs, the pain has lessened some, and Tony is able to parry when Ross tries to pinch his neck again. “Don’t you dare,” he spits, “don’t you dare.”  
   
“Shut up.” Ross is unforgiving, tussling with him until he’s got him tight against his chest, arms looped round him like a python. Tony doesn’t walk, won’t give him the satisfaction, but Ross drags him anyway. Freakishly strong. Freakishly.  
   
The guest room is unused, normally. Tony fucked the Ambassador in this room. When he was Ross’s captive, all those months ago before the wedding, this is the room he slept in. There are other bedrooms in the house, but this is the Guest Room.  
   
He hates it. Always has.  
   
“John,” Ross says, panting slightly with the exertion of lugging a 160lb omega down the hallway, “open the door, if you could be so kind.”  
   
“Don’t you dare,” Tony says again, “don’t you dare, don’t you fucking – “  
   
Ross throws him, like a big fat pillow, into the centre of the room. He bruises, hits the floor with a thud, and turns just to see Ross in framed in the doorway.  
   
“Did you fuck him?” Ross asks again, this time more level.  
   
“I _didn’t.”_  
   
“Fine,” he says carelessly. “You’ll stay here until you tell the truth.”  
   
“I won’t.”  
   
“You will. You’ll stay here for the next year, if that’s what I want. You’ll never leave this room again.”  
   
“People don’t forget me so easy.”  
   
“Oh, don’t worry,” Ross smiles, face ugly. “I’ll take care of your friends. It’s a shame, this could have all been easily avoided. But you just had to be a bad boy, didn’t you?”  
   
“Ross,” Tony stumbles to his feet. “You can lock me away. You can beat me. My answer won’t change. I didn’t _sleep_ with him, I didn’t, I _didn’t._ And you can – “  
   
“John, if he screams, ignore him. If he begs, I don’t care. If tries to kill himself, let him. Do not let him out of this room, do you understand?”  
   
John doesn’t look Tony in the eye. “I understand.”  
   
“And take that clock off the wall. We don’t want to make this easy.”  
   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> essentially it's half 2 am and i don't even want to think how many errors there are 
> 
> anyway there were so so many lovely comments last chapter ! i know the updates haven't been as often, but life is busy now. comments are the ultimate motivator!
> 
> next two to three chapters get dark for steve and tony. i've updated the tags to represent some new plot points, but from here on out i haven't really planned ahead, so things will b changing weekly. i'll keep you updated !


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Tony has an awful time this chapter. Next chapter we'll see what was happening behind the scenes while all this was going on, and that'll explain some things, but bear in mind that Tony has no idea what's happening and he's completely cut off and this is a SHITTY chapter. 
> 
> If you have problems with themes of isolation and control and all-around abusive relationships and you've had trouble with earlier parts of the story, know your limits.

   
It’s hard to quantify what Tony feels as boredom.  
   
When he was a kid, boredom was a day spent without something to look forward to. Boredom was an hour in church. It was his father’s study, and homework. Boredom back then was the absence of fun.  
   
Now, boredom is this dark room, sweltering heat. No stimulation, short of counting the threads in the carpet. He can only daydream for so long. Sometimes he screams, just so he’ll have something to do. He’ll lie under the bed where it’s cooler, sit under the shower and let the water wash over him, white noise.  
   
He’s fed sometimes, but not regularly. Tony doesn’t know if there’s a schedule to it, it doesn’t feel like it. He knows when the sun sets because it gets cooler in the room. Other than that, he’s timeless.  
   
_They’ll know by now,_ he tells himself. _They’ll all know. They won’t leave him to rot. Even if they can’t break in and steal him away, they won’t forget him._  
   
In that room it becomes his number one fear, to the point of paranoia, irrationality. _They’ll forget me._ That while he wastes away in here, the world keeps on turning, and Tony is no part of it.  
   
“Stop it,” he tells himself, because his voice is the only reminder that he’s alive. “Stop _thinking_ it.”  
   
Tony had told Ross he was going to kill himself. Ross had replied, “Good. If you die, I get to keep the money.”  
   
So he needs to keep living. Keep living. _Keep living._  
   
Tony’s chewed through his nails. He hasn’t chewed his nails in years. It’s specific kind of anxiety, not the kind you get from wormholes or having your head shoved under water. It’s the anxiety that comes with debasement, with _knowing_ that you’re losing, knowing exactly where you stand and how powerless you are to stop it. Tony hasn’t chewed his nails since the early days of his marriage to Obie, when sadism was still new to him, and he thought everyone was kind.  
   
His fingertips are bleeding. He sits on his hands to stop himself, and then somehow they end up back in his mouth. “It’s alright,” he whispers, burying his head between his knees and rocking. “You won’t be here forever.”  
   
   
How many days?  
   
Hard to tell. The window stays shut, but there’s a slither of light that sometimes makes it’s way through the slit in the bottom of the panelling. Sometimes it must be cloudy. Sometimes, Tony hears rain.  
   
He knows it’s summer, still, because the room is sweltering. Tony can’t open the window. It’s the first thing Ross had blocked, before Tony knew how far he’d take it. He’d had some kind of metal drilled over the pane. “So you don’t get any ideas,” he’d said, as if Tony would jump four stories onto the stone patio below.  
   
Splat.  
   
The door was next. Tony had been making good-headway with the lock when Ross took the option out of his hands. Tony doesn’t know what’s on the other side, but he knows it must be heavy, and he can hear the deadbolts sliding whenever someone comes in. Which isn’t often.  
   
A little hatch, sawn into the bottom of the door. His only contact. Food, water, medicine. Once, after Tony had broken the skin of his knuckles punching the wall and shredded his fingertips scratching, pre-cut bandages and anti-septic, so he can’t hang himself.  
   
There had been a clock, Tony thinks. He doesn’t know where it’s gone. Ross must have taken it.  
   
Tick tock. It would have driven him crazy, anyway.  
   
The bed is too soft. It’s too warm. Most days, he lies on the floorboards, spread out like a star, sweating. How many days? He should have counted. A blob of toothpaste for every day spent, but so much time has passed he’s sure, and what would be the point but to torment himself?  
   
He will break. You don’t understand. _You don’t understand._ You don’t understand what it’s like, with no one to talk to, nothing to read, nothing to _do –_  
   
“Did you sleep with him?” Ross asks casually. He’s standing at the window, or what’s supposed to be the window, hands in pocket, examining where Tony has tried to prise it clear.  
   
Ringing in his ears. “Thad – “ Tony’s mouth is so dry. He has to clear his throat. “Thaddeus.” He sits himself up. “You’ve – got to believe me. I didn’t – “  
   
Ross raps his knuckle against the window. “Solid,” he notes. “You won’t be able to break that.”  
   
“How long?” Tony asks, letting his head loll back against the foot of the bed. “You haven’t said – “  
   
“As long as it takes you to tell the truth.”  
   
He can’t. Because – Ross said he would take Steve, he thinks. He thinks if he tells Ross the truth, he might kill him. Kill them both. Everything will be for nothing. Ross will never trust him again. Ross will send him away.  
   
Irritation. “Why are you holding out?” He says, scowling, looking down at him with a frown. “We both know what you did. What you’ve been doing.”  
   
Tony works up the saliva to speak again, but Ross has turned. “Wait,” he blurts, and his fingers only just manage to catch the fabric of his pant leg. “Wait.” What does he want to say? What is he going to say next?  
   
“Please,” is all he manages. Weak.  
   
Ross looks at him, looming overheard, and Tony’s so – deprived of sleep, of food, he imagines deliriously that Ross is like a marble slab, about to crush him flat. “I’m going away for a week,” he says, tipping up Tony’s chin. “So I won’t be here. That means, if you make the wrong choice now, you won’t be leaving that room for a week, understand?”  
   
Tony’s so lightheaded, he can barely nod.  
   
“I don’t want to be hard on you, boy. Admit the truth to me now, and you can have a week downstairs. You’ll have a week to prepare yourself to explain your actions to me. You’ll be able to sit in the garden, and get your head straight.”  
   
“The truth?” Tony croaks.  
   
“Don’t play coy now, Tony. I’m giving you a chance. _Take it.”_ For a moment, it seems like Ross is more desperate than Tony. “I don’t like doing this to you. I don’t _relish_ it, contrary to what you believe. But I’m going to be the Vice-President, I _can’t_ have rebellion at home. Not now, not ever. Never again.”  
   
“You said you’d never hurt me,” Tony manages, voice hoarse. Maybe, if he can just exploit that little chink in Ross’s armour –  
   
“And you said you’d be loyal,” Ross says flatly. “To serve and obey, remember? Besides, I’m not hurting you. Am I beating you? Have I whipped you? Warren, _Warren_ knows how to hurt an omega. He wouldn’t be so lenient if one of his was disloyal.”  
   
“I’m not,” Tony says tiredly, exhausted, mentally and physically. “I _wasn’t.”_  
   
This hurts him. No matter what Ross believes, it hurts him. It’s like – the most exquisite torture you could devise for Tony. Lock him in a room. Deprive him of any stimulation. Let him rot.  
   
Ross lets go of his chin. “So you’re continuing your lie,” he states. “Fine. Let it not be said I didn’t try. Another week.”  
   
Tony groans, balls his hands into fists and digs them into his eyes. “If all you want is for me to say – “  
   
“No one’s coming for you.”  
   
Tony blinks, looks up. “What?”  
   
“If you think someone’s coming for you. If you think you might wiggle your way out, that somehow you can – I don’t know, reverse engineer plumbing into some kind of bomb. You won’t get far. And I’m just letting you know: _no one_ is going to help you.”  
   
“I didn’t think – “  
   
“But you do. Secretly.” Ross smiles, almost benevolent. “You think Rogers, your red-haired bitch of a friend. Either one of them will find out some way of breaking you out. I’m telling you they won’t.”  
   
Tony has to be careful. “You don’t know that,” he says, slowly. “I don’t even know that.”  
   
“Oh, but I do.” Ross’s smile is smug, smug enough that he knows something Tony doesn’t. “The longest you can hold a super-powered in the Raft on suspicion of terrorism is twelve weeks, by the way. And I still have friends in high places.”  
   
“What – what do you mean?” Tony lumbers to his feet. “What are you saying to – “  
   
Ross shrugs, already turning away. “Good luck Tony,” he says cheerfully. “Mull on that. You’ll have plenty of time to repent.”  
   
   
It must be morning, because outside the window he hears birds.  
   
There’s a tiny crack beneath the plating screwed to it. At a certain hour in the day, Tony doesn’t know which, a thin slither of light will cast itself across the floorboards. He comes back to himself, lying there, mouth dry and lips cracked, the ribbon of light dancing across his chest.  
   
He tries to grab it, catch the light in his hands and keep it. _Sunlight!_ He laughs, _real sunlight!_ He’s engrossed in it, lying flat on his belly while it crosses the floor. It will be back tomorrow, he hopes. In twenty-four hours. Twenty-four more hours of staring at a wall, and then the sun will be back.  
   
He lets his head drop back to the ground. It’s cooler on the ground. He’s laughing alone, on the dirty floorboards.  
   
   
He doesn’t hear the little hatch being opened, and then the frantic knocking, and eventually the door being opened. He’s not aware of anything at all until there are hands roughly shaking him. He hadn’t been sleeping, just drifting. He does that, from time to time.  
   
“Jesus,” John gasps, hand pressed to his chest. “Oh – fucking hell, Tony, I thought you were dead.”  
   
Tony doesn’t know what to say. “No,” he breathes, staring at the ceiling. “Just sleeping.”  
   
“On the floor.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony manages, listless.  
   
“You haven’t touched your food in two days. Water, Tony, you need to drink.”  
   
Alternatively, Tony can starve. All the way until his muscles turn into bones and his bones into dust and he can slip through the crack in the window. Out all the way into the sun.  
   
“I’m not hungry,” he says absently.  
   
“Get up.”  
   
Tony can’t. He doesn’t want to eat, not if it sits in his stomach and makes him ache. He can’t keep food down anyway, he gags on most of it.  
   
John is dragging him up. “Get up. Now. Get up, quickly.”  
   
He tries, but it’s impossible to get his feet underneath him, he’s too weak, too tired, hasn’t walked properly in weeks. John grunts, lifting him till he’s on his feet. “Work with me Tony,” he says, looping an arm round his waist, “c’mon, support yourself.”  
   
Tony leans heavily against him, he can’t help it. “What are you doing?” He asks, half-dragged across the room.  
   
“You’re going to eat,” John says, with some finality. “If he asks, you never left this room.”  
   
The food is rotting on the floor – has it really been two days? Has Tony really spent two whole days lying by the window? “Downstairs?” He asks. “You’ll let me downstairs?”  
   
John doesn’t say anything, just logs him down the hallway and carefully, bit by bit, down the stairs. “Sit,” he says, pushing him into a chair in the kitchen. “What do want to eat?”  
   
Tony is taken aback by all the _space._ It’s dark outside – the digital clock in the oven tells him it’s the early hours of the morning. Tony feels like he’s in a different world, like the kitchen of his home is a whole other _galaxy,_ not just a room a few feet away from the place he’s been locked for the past few weeks. “I – anything.”  
   
“No, tell me. I’m not going to make something and then have you not eat.”  
   
Tony doesn’t know. His ears are ringing.  
   
He comes back to himself when there’s a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, topped with cream. He scalds him, burns him on the way down, but It’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted before. “If you eat,” John says, “you’ll get one more.”  
   
Eggs, toast, bacon, pancakes and syrup. Tony’s stomach twists, he bites his nails. “I can’t eat this,” he says, “I’ll just throw it up.”  
   
“Then throw it up. Eat first.”  
   
John takes back the plate and cuts all the food into tiny bitesize pieces, like you would a child. “There,” he says again, not unkind. “Try now.”  
   
Tony takes some bacon and chews. Swallows. “It’s good,” he says, if only to be polite.  
   
“He’ll kill me if he comes back and finds out you’re dead.”  
   
“Even if it means letting me leave the room?”  
   
“We just won’t mention that.”  
   
Tony moves the food around his plate then pushes it away. “I can’t figure you out.”  
   
“Okay.”  
   
“You’re young. Ish. Why don’t you go somewhere else? Start a family?”  
   
“My father worked for Ross. And his father before him.”  
   
“And?”  
   
“And he pays me more than I would get anywhere else for essentially sitting on my ass and surfing the web. And sometimes cooking dinner.”  
   
“If you’re so loyal, why do you help me?”  
   
“Do I?” John says, looking mildly amused. “Eat your egg.”  
   
“You know I’m on birth control. You don’t stop me.”  
   
“I don’t approve.”  
   
“But you haven’t told him.”  
   
John shrugs a shoulder. “I haven’t.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
He’s frustratingly vague. Maybe there is no hidden meaning. Maybe John is just someone who likes an easy life, avoids conflict, and keeps his head down. “Doesn’t it – bother you?” Tony asks quietly. “What he’s doing to me?”  
   
“You slept with another man.”  
   
“You don’t know – okay. So even if I did. Do I – deserve this?”  
   
Tony honestly wants to know.  
   
“Warren would say you deserve worse.”  
   
“What do reasonable people say?”  
   
“They say you should eat your food.”  
   
Tony takes another bite. It congeals in his mouth, and he can’t swallow. He’s gagging.  
   
Water, held in front of his face. “Drink,” John suggests, and leaves it on the table.  
   
“When does he come back?” Tony asks quietly.  
   
“Three days.”  
   
Three more days in that room. How can it only have been four already? Tony can’t do that again. He can’t it anymore. “If you let me stay down here,” Tony says, urgently, quickly, “I swear I won’t – “  
   
“No.”  
   
“Please,” Tony blurts. “Please. Let me get a message to Steve. Let me _talk_ to him, please don’t send me back up there – “  
   
“Steve? Steve’s gone.”  
   
So it’s true. “Gone?”  
   
“Raft. Terroism. Don’t look at me like that,” John says scathingly, “I can’t stop Ross any more than you can. He’ll be out in a few months, they won’t actually find anything. Ross wants him out of his hair for the election.”  
   
“And me?”  
   
“They’re both angry you’re not playing ball. I think Warren thought it would be easier to break you.” John sounds – proud? Maybe just begrudgingly respectful. “Ross says if he had it his way, he’d have you beaten black and blue. There’s nothing to say Ross won’t change his mind.”  
   
“I don’t care about pain.”  
   
“Good. That’s what everyone says. Could you take more of this? If Ross never let you out again? He would do that, you know. He’s stubborn. People do worse for less.”  
   
Tony pushes away his plate and rubs his hands across his eyes. He has pain building behind his temples; it’s near constant these days, but especially bad now. “What are you trying to say?”  
   
“I’m saying that he knows you slept with Rogers. I know you slept with Rogers. You know you slept with Rogers. You’re dragging this out through stubbornness. _Stop it._ Let him shout at you, take away your license. Soon, if you’re good, if you keep your head down, if you give him a kid, he’ll be willing to forget. I don’t understand,” John says, almost irritable, “I don’t know _why_ you insist on making life so difficult for yourself.”  
   
“I’m not a pushover.”  
   
“Then you’re an idiot. You should have learnt by now. You’re bred to be a pushover, Tony.”  
   
John sounds so angry. What is that, concern? _Guilt,_ Tony thinks. _He wants you to play nice so he doesn’t have to feel bad about sitting around while Ross tortures you._  
   
“I’m not bred to be anything,” Tony says, quietly. _You’re bred to be a little bitch,_ Obie would tell him. Or, _you’re bred to change the world,_ Pierce would say, when he was trying to woo him. Even his dad – _you’re clever, Tones. Bred to be clever._  
   
Alphas aren’t bred, betas aren’t bred. Nobody tells an alpha they were born for one purpose, or genetically refined through a process of survival of the fittest to be good at whatever they’re good at, like a prize horse. It’s self-congratulatory. Oh no, Tony isn’t clever in his own right, he was _bred_ for it. Made to be someone’s perfect little toy. It makes him sick. He wants to be sick.  
   
John looks at him for a long time, and maybe he doesn’t have anything to say. “Back to the room,” he mutters. “You can’t say I didn’t try.”  
   
   
He thinks of Steve.  
   
In a cell, most likely. Will Ross be hurting Steve? Alphas can be so vicious when they’re cuckolded. There is a certain poetic irony in it. Both of them, locked away, alone, star-crossed lovers.  
   
Tony doesn’t usually romanticise. He’s feeling more fragile than usual.  
   
But, let it never be said he holds his pride. He doesn’t. He is ever practical. John was right; it’s no use being stubborn for no gain. Not just because he’s suffering, because he’s not. Steve is suffering too. And that, Tony cannot abide.  
   
So he figures he knows what he needs to do.  
  
   
“Alpha,” he says, eyes on the ground, hands balled into fists. All he can see is the leather of Ross’s shoes, squeaky clean. Tony got him those shoes.  
   
“So you’ve had time to think,” Ross says. Magnanimous. “And?”  
   
“And I’m – I’m sorry.”  
   
“Oh yeah? For what, exactly?”  
   
“Sorry that – I didn’t tell the truth, before.”  
   
“Ah. I see.” Ross crouches, takes his chin in his hand. “You’re sorry that you didn’t tell the truth?” He asks softly. “Tell the truth about what?”  
   
Tony swallows. “That I – on one occasion, I – “  
   
“No. The truth.”  
   
“On two occasions – “  
   
“ _The truth.”_  
   
 “Three times. Three times I – in a, a fit of madness…”  
   
“You…?”  
   
“I – slept with him.”  
   
“With who?”  
   
“With Steve.”  
   
Ross releases him. “There,” he says, “was that so hard?”  
   
Tony shakes his head.  
   
“Good.” Ross stands, briskly brushes down his clothes. “It’s been three weeks, if you must know.”  
   
Tony should have a heat coming. He had thought… maybe the stress. The stress will have messed him up, he thinks. Delayed him. Ross eliminates any other possibility by throwing a little box at him. “Piss on it.” He demands, sharply.  
   
Pregnancy test. “I didn’t – not while in heat.”  
   
“Doesn’t matter. Sometimes, you get fertile a little before, a little after. Accidents happen.”  
   
Tony takes himself to the bathroom. He waits. Ten minutes. It’s negative.  
   
He tells Ross, shows him the proof. “Fine,” he says shortly. “When are you due?”  
   
“I – “ Tony shakes his head, dizzy. “I’m not sure. My calendar – “  
   
“Are you late?”  
   
“I don’t _know,”_ Tony manages, barely hiding his frustration. “I don’t even know what day it is, I can’t keep track – “  
   
“You’ll stay here. Until your heat.”  
   
Tony looks up. “No.” That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t the _promise --_  
   
“Yes. I don’t think you’ve quite got the message yet.”  
   
He turns to leave. _He turns to leave._  
   
“No,” Tony blurts, grasping at Ross’s sleeve. “No, Ross, please.”  
   
“Get off me.”  
   
“ _Please.”_ Tony winds his fingers tighter, is pulled onto the floor when Ross tries to walk away. He skins his knees on the wood. “You said if I told you – “  
   
“That was my offer, yes. You refused it. And then you tried to lie. Again.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. Shuts his eyes. What can he say? What can he do? Brow pressed to the floor, hands clasped together in front of his head: supplication. “Please,” he begs. “Just for ten minutes. _Please,_ just let me sit outside for ten minutes, and then I’ll do whatever you want.”  
   
“Get up. You’re embarrassing yourself.”  
   
Tony is so dizzy he can barely lift his head. He will not give this up. He can’t, it’s crucial, he’ll die if he has to spend anymore time alone, stewing, with his own thoughts for company. “How much more?” He asks, “Why are you hurting me like this?”  
   
“Hurting you? Please. I could show you what real hurt looks like, Tony, and it’s not being locked in your room.”  
   
“Locked in – this isn’t _time out time,_ Ross, it’s not a fucking naughty step, I’m – fucking hell, I’m – “ Tony wobbles to his feet, unsteady, almost falls until Ross catches him and rights him. “ _Fuck you,”_ he spits, and pushes him back. “Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you, fuck you! Fuck you!”_  
  
He slams his hands into Ross’s chest over and over but the bastard – the bastard just _smiles._ Tony screams in his face. He must look like an idiot, but the anger is visceral, the frustration, the pain. He screams again, tasting iron, and Ross just looks smug. “Can you use your words, Tony?”  
   
He uses his fists, driving them into Ross’s stomach, scratching, tearing, gripping his hair and pulling. Screaming, screaming, screaming. “Let me out!” He shrieks when Ross takes his wrists in his hands. He tries to kick, but Ross is like stone. “Let me out! Let me out! I’ll kill you if you don’t let me out!”  
   
“You know what everyone tells me I should do in this situation? I should throw you over my lap and spank you until you’re bloody. But I don’t like that. And I think you’re more intelligent than that, aren’t you? Than just being treated like a bad bitch. You’re _clever._ And so the punishment has to fit the crime, Tony, understand?”  
   
Tony shakes his head, snaps his teeth, craning his neck to bare them in Ross’s face. He looks smug, sneering, eyes cold, face twisted. He wishes he would. Just throw him over his lap and beat him, and that would be the end of it.  
   
“You’re so cruel,” Tony cracks.  
   
“You betrayed me.”  
   
“You forced me to marry you.”  
   
“You _asked_ me to marry you.”  
   
“Because you left me no choice.”  
   
“Because the alternatives were worse. And because I’m _kind_ to you.”  
   
“Kind?” Tony chokes. “Are you delusional?”  
   
“I have always tried my – “  
   
“I don’t want you.”  
   
“Excuse me?”  
   
Tony rips his wrists out of Ross’s hands. “I don’t want you,” he repeats. “During my heat. _I don’t want you.”_  
   
Ross looks bemused. “Don’t be ridiculous. As if you have a choice.”  
   
“I don’t want you,” Tony says again, simply. “I don’t want you to touch me.”  
   
“Tony, you’ll change your mind when it starts, you know that.” He talks as if speaking to a child, who doesn’t know better, or doesn’t know their place.  
   
“Rape me then. Show me how kind you are, when I scream and beg you to stop, and you – force me anyway, mount me like a fucking horse and – “  
   
“Stop that,” Ross snaps. “Don’t be crude.”  
   
Tony pushes him, slightly. “Do it,” he goads. “If you want it so badly. If I have no choice. Throw me on the bed and just _do it.”_  
  
Hand in his hair. “Maybe that’s what you need,” Ross grunts, twisting him round, hurting him. “A good fucking. Maybe I’ve always been too lenient.”  
   
“Maybe,” Tony taunts. “Maybe Steve just has the bigger dick, who knows.”  
   
Ross throws him onto the bed. He’s unbuckling his pants. Tony is laughing, laughing, laughing. “You’re so kind!” He wheezes, “So gentle! Such a good man! _I don’t want you._ I don’t want you to touch me, understand? I can’t stop you, but if you do – don’t delude yourself anymore, Ross. You’re a rapist and a sadist and you’re no better than any of them.”  
   
Ross halts. “You don’t want me, eh?” He says coldly, tucking himself back in. “Fine. That’s no skin off my back, Tony. Ass is cheap, omegas are cheap. You’re all a dime a dozen.”  
   
“Go on then,” Tony mocks. “Go pay someone stupider than me to sleep with you.”  
   
“I’ll never hurt you,” Ross says, lowly. “Bear that in mind. I will never raise my hand against you, because I am better than you, at least.”  
   
“Tell yourself that, if it helps.”  
   
“Two weeks.” Ross says shortly. “Two more weeks.”  
   
Tony balks. “What?”  
   
“You’ll be here for two more weeks.”  
   
Tony screws up his face. “Wait,” he says, “don’t be – “  
   
“Three more weeks?”  
   
“Ross!”  
   
“ _Four_ more weeks?” Ross smirks. “The rest of your life? There. Look at that. You’re all quiet again. Funny, it’s almost as if I’m in charge, and you’re not.”  
   
“You’re a bully. A pathetic little bully.”  
   
“A pathetic little bully that owns you. Don’t I, Tony?”  
   
“Fuck off. Leave me alone.”  
   
“What, going to curl up and cry?”  
   
“Leave me alone.”  
   
“I thought you wanted company.”  
   
“Silence is better than you.”  
   
“You know, he’s suffering too.”  
   
Tony looks up, tremulous. “What?” He asks.  
   
“Your Steve. Just in case you were feeling left out. He’s suffering too.”  
   
Tony says nothing.  
   
“So, if you maybe want to help him, you can retract your silly little argument and let me take you for your heat.”  
   
Steve would –  
   
Steve –  
   
“Is he really hurting?” Tony asks, quietly.  
   
“Sure. Locked in a cell, can barely twitch a toe. But hey,” Ross snorts, “ _you’re_ the one who’s important, right? Not him. So, it’s worth him being in pain just so you can say I didn’t fuck you.”  
   
“I didn’t say that.”  
   
“Your obsession with him would be sweet if it wasn’t so deviant.”  
   
“I’ll let you fuck me whenever you want if you let me out. I’ll share your bed every night,” Tony says resignedly. “Just – stop hurting him. Stop hurting me. You can win.”  
   
“Hmm. I think we’ll see about that. Don’t look so down, Tony. Your heat’s soon. We’ll talk, after that. Maybe agree to some kind of parole.”  
   
The panic is clawing up his throat again at the thought of being locked here. “Wait,” he says, “if you could get anything from me, anything at all, what would it be?”  
   
Ross snorts. “There’s nothing you can give me. I own you.”  
   
“But if – anything. _Willingly,_ that I could give you.”  
   
“Don’t try and sell yourself. It makes you cheap, Tony.” Ross sighs, brushes down his clothes. “You’ve crumpled my shirt. John won’t be pleased.”  
   
“You haven’t told me what you want from me.”  
   
“Because I don’t want anything from you. Don’t you understand?” Ross says witheringly.  
   
“There has to be something you want. That I can give you.”  
   
Ross halts, heavy on the floor. He examines Tony for a brief moment, looks him up and down, and then – one hand, reaching up to gently twist at a greasy lock of his hair. It’s soft, almost compassionate. He cups Tony’s cheek, lets his thumb stroke the arch of his cheekbone.  
   
“What must it feel like for you, hmm?” His eyes cloud with something akin to concern. “What’s it like to be so powerless?”  
   
Tony shoves him away.  
   
No, he doesn’t. He wants to. But instead he makes his hands curl in Ross’s already crumpled shirt. He says nothing, does nothing. Ross stares down at him, scenting something like confusing mixed with lust.  
   
Tony kisses him.  
   
He falls for it, briefly. Reciprocates. _He probably wants to believe it’s real,_ Tony thinks, and feels a mild, quick pang of sympathy. And then Ross pushes him away, spits on the floor, draws his hand over his mouth.  
   
“That’s disgusting,” he snarls, “knowing where your mouth has been.”  
   
He leaves. He locks the door.  
   
   
It’s so sublimely cruel to tie an omegas hands in a heat.  
   
There is a reason to it. Tony’s been known to scratch himself up a little. Still, better to scratch than to be completely without relief. Ross doesn’t agree. He tells John, for Tony’s safety, don’t let him hurt himself. We wouldn’t want that, oh no.  
   
It’s cruel, cruelty! Cruelty! He lets Ross know what he thinks, screams it, arms numb, back aching, wet and burning up inside. He screams it when he slams his head against the mattress, over and over. He screams it until his throat is hoarse and wrecked and he can’t scream any longer.  
   
He tries to cool himself, inching his way to the bathroom, anything for cold water, but ends up laid out on the tiles, throat scratchy and skin alive with ants. This is his punishment, he understands, for… Steve, probably. Although he’s been locked up so long – maybe he did something else? Maybe Ross wants to hurt-him-but-not-hurt him.  
   
He allows himself his daydreams. Steve. Steve’s hands. Other hands, too. _You’ve not been forgotten,_ he tells himself.  
   
   
He hears rumbling from downstairs, and shouting. Had he any energy, he would drag himself to the door to try and see what he could hear. Ross certainly, angry, home for the night before he flies off to another rally. Under his own scent, it’s so hard to tell, but the guest puts up a fight, and smells like home.  
  
   
Tony hears footsteps.  
   
It wakes him. No one has any cause to come down here unless it’s feeding time or something else related to him. He’s learnt to spark when he hears steps in his direction.  
   
The room is a mess. Steadily, in drips, Tony has demolished it entirely. The bed is missing sheets, the pillows erupted with feathers, wallpaper ripped apart with nail filed down to a blunt, the bathroom flooded, carpets smeared with food. He has slammed himself against the door again and again, and all he has to show for it are bruises and a slight crack in the handle.  
   
“He’s in here,” Ross is saying conversationally. “Obviously, I’m at my wits end. I paid a high price for him, you know. And he was doing so well until – well. You’ll see.”  
   
He’s flanked by an alpha, not too old, maybe even a little younger than Tony. Smells neutral, bright blue eyes, lanky, curly blond hair. _Threatthreatthreat,_ Tony’s hindbrain supplies. He shuffles against the wall and bedside cabinet, half-hidden by the bed. No one who works with Ross is an ally.  
   
“My goodness. Wow. He’s really done a number in here, hasn’t he? How long did you say you’d had him enclosed?”  
   
“Five weeks, now.”  
   
Five weeks? How so? It’s been months, hasn’t it? Months and months, years. Tony hasn’t seen the sun in so long. He flattens himself against the wall, debates whether it’s worth hiding under the bed. It would be much harder to drag him out from under the bed, that’s for sure.  
   
“He must have done something pretty bad, huh?” The alpha has one hand in his pocket, the other displaying an expensive watch. He’s rich, and alpha, and – _badbadbad,_ Tony’s brain chatters, _badbadbad._  
   
“You don’t need details. Let’s leave it at – he wasn’t loyal.”  
   
Alpha winces, sucks in a breath. “My God, really? I suppose – maybe it was to be expected, from him. You did well to get him this far.” Alpha scents the room visibly – _rude,_ Tony thinks, that’s so impolite. “For what it’s worth, I’m surprised you’ve been so easy on him. Not many alphas would allow them to just sit in a room.”  
   
“He likes stimulation. I know what I’m doing.”  
   
“He’s smelling pretty strong. We can help with that, too.”  
   
“I want to hear everything you have on offer.” Ross says, bluntly. “I haven’t got time to waste looking after him, now. We’re heading into the final days before election.”  
   
“Of course, absolutely understandable. Let me have a look at the little guy, if you don’t mind?” Alpha crouches on the balls of his feet, tries to peer round the bed. “Of Ross?” He calls, “I know you’re there. Do you want to come out so we can talk?”  
   
_LIAR,_ Tony’s brain screams, _LIARLIAR, YOU DON’T WANT TO TALK!_  
  
“Be careful,” Ross says dryly. “He bites.”  
   
“Oh, we have something for that too,” the alpha says airily. “There are gags you can use. We have some that will let him talk, or that can be modified for eating without having to take them off. I’ll show you the catalogue.”  
   
“That would be good,” Ross says, staring at Tony with a smirk. “I would like to look into that.”  
   
“Sure, whatever suits you best. C’mere, Of Ross, I won’t hurt you.” The alpha clicks his fingers, jerks his chin. “I just want to see you is all.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, snaps his teeth. _AWAY!AWAY!AWAY!_ he growls _LEAVEMELEAVEME_.  
   
“It all depends on what you want,” the alpha admits. “There are things he can wear. They’ll stop him touching himself, if that’s what you’re scared off. Or there are pills. Now I know what you’re thinking, but it’s really the kindest thing for them, you know? Takes away the urges. You might want to pair it with the wearable for maximum effect.”  
   
“Interesting. Tell me more about the – uh, the _wearable.”_  
   
“Completely discreet,” the alpha assures. “We have two models, one that just ties off the scrotum, another that completely cups the groin. Second is more expensive, obviously, but it really removes any chance of – stimulation and relief.”  
   
“And the pills – they won’t mess with his heat?”  
   
“Absolutely not. They just dampen urges slightly. In fact, most of our cliental tell us their omegas are so much happier when they’re not completely fixated on their own release during a heat. Makes the whole thing effortless.” The alpha smiles down at Tony, continues to stroke his neck. “Of course,” he says, “we offer a procedure, now. Does both of those things at once, you understand?”  
   
“You hear that Tony?” Ross sneers sadistically. “They have a _procedure.”_  
   
“We would need to get Of Ross’s consent for any permanent changes,” Alpha says, “but we’ve never had trouble securing it before. Omegas tend to do what’s best for their spouses, when push comes to shove. And Of Ross would probably feel so much better when all those nasty urges have been taken – _fucking hell.”_  
   
Tony has bitten, blood in his mouth. Alpha shoves him away, holding his hand, bleeding red. Tony wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, scents the _painpainpain,_ and thinks _good._  
   
The alpha is standing, holding his hand and wincing. “Fucking fucking fucking hell,” he blurts, blood dripping between his fingers, “the feral little – fucker.”  
   
Ross raises his hand to strike and Tony scampers back, back to his corner, back where he can hide. “I’ll fucking kill you,” Ross shouts, “I will fucking _kill_ you if you pull that again, understand?”  
   
“No no,” the alpha says hurriedly, “don’t do that. Here – in fact, do you mind? I don’t want to put my hand in my pocket when it’s bleeding.”  
   
Ross draws out a thin wand, black with a silver ball at the end. “Three settings,” alpha grits, obviously pained. “Low, medium, high. High really should only be used in the most extreme circumstances and low is to chide. Of course, everything is worse when you use their necks,” alpha says pointedly. “May I?”  
   
Ross considers for a second and then grunts. “Medium,” he says, “on the neck.”  
   
“No,” Tony mumbles, pushing back against the wall. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It wasn’t good of me. It was so bad. I’ll – “ Tony remembers what he used to say to Obie, the words falling out by rote. “I’ll never be that bad again. I’m sorry.”  
   
“Of course you are,” Alpha says, gripping the wand in his good hand. “So it’ll just be one touch as punishment, and then it’ll be a clean slate, won’t it?”  
   
Tony kicks. He holds onto the bedside cabinet and pulls, topples it to the floor to stop the alpha coming closer. “Stop it,” he gasps, “stop it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to have it hurt you so bad. I didn’t – “ Tony is shaking like a rope bridge in a storm, like a cup of water in an earthquake, “I didn’t _mean_ to.”  
   
“Jesus, stop,” Ross interrupts. “He gets it, he’s learnt the lesson, I don’t want him pissing himself on my floor. No need to be cruel.”  
   
“Actually there’s every need,” Alpha says. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him. Today it’s me, and that’s fine, but who will it be tomorrow? You? A guest in your home? What if he decides to take a chunk out of the President because he’s a jaggy bitch and the President accidently brushes too close? These reflexes need to be trained away, there’s no excuse for them.”  
   
Ross, briefly, seems conflicted. “He’s seen combat,” he says, awkwardly. “And his last alpha – did these things, I’ve heard. I don’t want to punish a reaction he can’t control.”  
   
“He _can_ control it. You watch me after I tap him, he’ll behave. He’s just _choosing_ not to – look, there are lots of reasons, Sir. Attention seeking, badly trained, thinking they can act out if something doesn’t go their way. It’s perfectly safe – come here, you,” Alpha grunts, catching Tony by the waist of his sweats when he tries to dart away.  
   
“I’m not that kind of alpha. I don’t believe in beating them.”  
   
“You’re not. Beating them, that’s awful; this is _humane._ Trust me on this – Of Ross, bend over the bed. This will be a lot easier if you do.”  
   
“No,” Tony burns, pushing back. “No, no, no, I – Ross,” he implores, “please, c’mon, you know what I’m like, you know what I’m – stop!” Alpha slams him onto the bed, curls his bloody hand in Tony’s hair and holds him there, face mushed into the mattress. He buckles himself against Tony’s back, holds him there like a weight, stopping him from kick back, and stretches out his neck so it’s a clear target, a red X.  
   
“Shall I?” Alpha asks, wand poised over Tony’s nape. “It’s all about tough love, Sir. You’ve got to do what’s best for them.”  
   
Tony is cringing away, saliva bubbling against the dirty bedsheet. “Please,” he whispers, scrabbling his bare feet on the dirty floor. His pleas turn into this stupid, stupid whine, the basest manifestation of fear, and he shakes and shakes and shakes.  
   
Obie used to, yes he did, and Tony was just as powerless against it then as he is now. He would use a wand – Tony has seen them before. And then, that one night, where he cranked it on high and burned it against the back of his neck so Tony lay paralysed while he stole the reactor from his body. Tony remembers, he remembers. Not again, not again, never again he said –  
   
“No,” Ross relents. “I don’t want to hurt him.”  
   
The man releases Tony, and he scrambles up onto the bed, kicking away. “I’m sorry,” he chatters, crawling his way to Ross, “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I’ll never bite again I swear.”  
   
 “Would you like to discuss price options?” The alpha asks, innocently. “You see even the threat has set him on the right path.”  
   
“I’m not buying that,” Ross says, disgustedly. “That’s – obscene. Do I look like a Puritan to you?”  
   
“This isn’t some kind of traditionalist mumbo jumbo, Sir. This is tough love. Sometimes you have to – “  
   
“Yes, you’ve said all this already. Tough love. Just seems tough, to me. You would do well on the Raft, you know, in enhanced interrogation.”  
   
“I – thank you?”  
   
“It wasn’t a compliment.” Ross snaps. “Leave. I’ll take the pills, nothing else.”  
   
“Are you sure? You seemed so enthusiastic before. Would you at least like to look at our line of – “  
   
“Even _I_ draw the fucking line at this, kid. Get out, before I refuse everything.”  
   
“Well,” Alpha says, standing, “if you change your mind you know where to find me. We have residential courses, too, if he proves to be… difficult.”  
   
“I’ll keep you in mind. Please leave.”  
   
Footsteps retreating down the hall. Tony shivers.  
   
“You can’t stay there,” Ross says shortly. “Get up.”  
   
“Can’t,” Tony chatters out. He isn’t being obstructive on purpose, he swears. He just can’t get the strength in his muscles, his body won’t let him. Adrenalin has faded, leaving him drained, exhausted. _Shut the door,_ he wants to say, _leave me in peace._  
   
But Ross is just grabbing him and sitting him up straight. _Freakishly strong,_ Tony thinks drowsily, now lying bared on the floor. _So fucking freakish._  
   
“You’re being dramatic,” he says, but there’s no bite. _I hate you,_ Tony thinks, _I hate you, so much._ “It’s not been as bad as that. I haven’t hit you, have I?”  
   
Tony’s muscles are still shaking, twitching. He can no longer hold up his head, which is how Ross wants him. Head bowed, defeated, utterly broken. He looms over him like a shadow, hands in his pockets. “Well,” he says, “look at you now. Do you think you’ve learnt your lesson?”  
   
Tony nods. “Yeah,” he croaks.  
   
“’Yeah’? You’ll have to do better than that. Tell me you’ve learnt your lesson.”  
   
“I have,” he whispers. “I have learnt my lesson.”  
   
“Kneel. Promise me you’ve learnt your lesson.”  
   
Achingly, Tony slips to the floor. He loses his balance, and has to push himself up onto his knees, head lolling on his shoulders. “Ross – “  
   
“Alpha.”  
   
“Alpha,” Tony swallows. “I’ve learnt my lesson. Please, please, _please_ let me out now.”  
   
“I’m being fair to you,” Ross says, shortly. “You slipped up. You’ve been punished enough. Do you agree I was fair?”  
   
Tony doesn’t, but he nods anyway, exhausted. “Yes,” he manages, barely breathing.  
   
“Good. You’ll take two pills every day, once when you wake up, once when you go to sleep. I won’t bother with those contraptions _yet,_ but if I catch wind that you’re up to no good, you can rest assured I’ll have you locked up. Again, do you understand?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“This is a fresh start, now. I’ve forgiven you your… indiscretions. Consider the next month probation. After that, you’ll have six months to prove your loyalty before I grant you a license. Am I 100% clear? No grounds for confusion?”  
   
“No,” Tony mumbles. “I understand perfectly.”  
   
Ross examines him, up and down. Tony feels numb. “You need a haircut,” he says, turning away.  
   
   
He watches rain against the window. Little bullets. He imagines that they crack the glass and he climbs out and runs away. There’s a suit waiting for him. And Steve. And as soon as he puts on the suit, Ross dies, and Warren never existed, and Tony never married anyone at all. And he gets to fly, too. And Steve is there. And Bucky is there. And Tony gets what he wants, all the time, and everyone thinks he’s clever, and his three babies get to be with him too, and nothing ever went wrong. He gets to drive. He gets to talk to whoever he wants to. Edward and Nick can come if they want. All of them, and Natasha. It would be a safe world, a perfectly safe world. No one bad would be allowed. No alphas at all, except Steve. And Bucky. Because Bucky is a protector, and they’ll need a protector too. He’ll need one, because he won’t be able to wear the suit all the time, not with his three children. And Steve and Bucky. On vacation. All of them together. It would so safe. Tony would be so happy. It would rain like this, and Tony would sleep outside all day. No one would stop him. No one can stop him. No one can stop him from thinking, not yet. His thoughts are still his own.  
   
“Wives,” Mary of Warren is saying, “submit to your own husbands, as to the lord, for the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their husbands.”  
   
She slams a heavy bag down on the table. “Tony,” she greets sweetly. “It’s good to see you again. Nick’s here, and I’ve brought my youngest Os. This is Josiah and Judith.”  
   
They’re both short, with their mother’s upturned nose, no older than 16 probably. Looking to be married soon. “They’re wonderful,” Tony says numbly, trying to stop himself from window seat.  
   
“My alpha will take over the scriptural proceedings, but he sent me to cleanse you. I wanted the children to see what happens to dirty omegas.” She lifts up her hands and tips up her chin as if proclaiming to the sky. “As the book says, ‘And I will judge you as a breeder, who commits adultery and brings upon yourself the blood of wrath and jealousy!”  
   
“Hi Tony,” Nick says absently, staring at a spot in the middle distance. “Mary said you did something bad.”  
   
“I did,” Tony agrees distantly, chewing his nails, words muffled by his fingertips. “I was so bad.”  
   
“We’ve been doing these a lot,” Nick confides, sounding tired. “We go from house to house, wherever Warren’s friends want us. Suddenly everyone has an omega they want to be purified. I think it’s just the fashion.”  
   
“Does it hurt?” Tony asks, because he’s not afraid of pain, but he’d rather not suffer it now, while he’s so worn down.  
   
“No,” Mary of Warren assures, “being cleansed doesn’t _hurt._ There’s nothing painful about atoning, Of Ross.”  
   
“It might hurt a bit,” Nick frowns. “It hurt when Warren did me, but I think he might have done that on purpose.”  
   
Tony doesn’t expect Mary to cut him any slack. “Where do you want me?” He asks.  
   
“Bathroom. No need to make a mess,” she says briskly. “Josiah, bring my bag. Judith, sweetie, can you start the readings?”  
   
“Hebrews 13:4,” the girl begins. “Marriage should be honored by all, and the marriage bed kept pure, or God will judge the adulterer and the sexually immoral.”  
   
“Amen,” Mary says piously, Nick following with a little lag. She jams the handle of a sharply wired bristle brush into Tony’s back pointedly.  
   
“Amen,” he agrees, exhausted.  
   
   
He runs his hands over he shaved head. He’s supposed to feel reborn.  
   
He just feels tired.  
   
His skin hurts, the marks they’ve left still burning. He’s just been washed, but he feels dirty, so he runs another bath, sits in the tub while it fills up. It’s hot, scalding, but it’s okay if he melts. He can drip away down the drain, and that would be it.  
   
_You still have things to live for,_ a desperate voice tells him.  
   
Tony doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about what he has left. Even loving takes an effort he no longer has.  
   
So he floats in the bath until the water runs over the edge, and John thinks he’s tried to kill himself, and Ross shouts at him for being dramatic, and they put him in bed and leave him alone and everything is blessedly quiet, dark, and cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah.
> 
> Next chapter we see what Steve, Bucky, and Natasha were doing. Rest assured, they weren't just sitting around and fingering themselves while Tony suffered. Comments, obviously, are loved! Especially how you think this chapter went... I know I write dark stuff, but this kind of felt extra bad, idk. Believe it or not, I was going to make it darker, and then even I was like no; enough. 
> 
> I feel I should reiterate: Tony will get the happiest, most poetically-justified ending possible. But still. Like to know how you're feeling about this world.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One scene of non-consensual touching, not unlike anything that's been seen before, over very soon

He’s been staking the house for about two months, give or take a few days.  
   
Ross is lazy. He’s on the trail, and he doesn’t keep security posted outside his home. He should. Even a mediocre guard could have spotted Bucky by now, in his perch, day after day. He sets cameras around the perimeter, watches the front entrance, stays hidden in a tree that backs onto the garden. The stealth tech is good, but the fact he rustles the trees is obvious.  
   
Really. Ross is very lazy.  
   
Still, he’s not willing to chance a look closer at the house. Ross does have tech, Bucky remembers Steve pointing it out at Tony’s birthday. And of course, with Steve now _restrained…_  
   
It would be stupid to do something rash. Not till he knows where Tony is.  
   
Because Tony hasn’t been seen in weeks.  
   
Men in the night. Two-hundred, a SWAT team on orders of President Ellis, all to take out Steve. He’s been suspected of terrorism offences, but don’t ask _what_ offences, because no one can tell you. Violation of Accords. _Bullshit._  
   
Ross still has friend in high places, it seems. There are still people gagging for an excuse to shred the initiative, or get it under their thumb. Taking Steve out of the equation – you kill two birds with one stone. Three, even, if you count Tony.  
   
He hasn’t seen him. Not once, in all the time he’s been posted. Ross comes and goes; it’s easy to follow him on the campaign trail, and he flies in, presumably to see to Tony. Or not. He could be gone. He could be dead, for all Bucky knows. He could lying face down in a ditch, body decomposing, and about to be written off as just one more omega run away while the only people who could do anything about it get hacked one by one –  
   
There’s some movement. Bucky halts, focuses, zooms. The heavy red curtain shielding one of the large manor windows is twitching. It’s pulled back. Bucky can make out that it’s a little window-seat, built into the wall, and that there’s a person he thinks might be Tony.  
   
Or not. Hard to tell. They’re half-obscured by the curtain; Bucky gets a glimpse of a bald head, tipped against the pane, and some feet poking out. Could be anyone. There have been other guests, galas, events, lots of people coming in and out. Could be one of them. Could be someone else.  
   
Besides, Tony has hair. Unless he cut it. He could have cut it, Bucky supposes, but it’s a long shot. Most likely, it’s a random. Another lost cause.  
   
The curtain shifts slightly, and then head presses itself against the window, a bit like a child trying to fog the glass. Bucky zooms again. It’s him.  
   
Undoubtedly, this time, it’s him. Jesus, he’s lost weight. But oh God, it’s _him._ He’s alive! He’s definitely alive, and active, and – alive. And he hasn’t been sent away, he’s right _there._ Bucky could just – he could just _take him,_ they could whisk him away and –  
   
He’s fumbling for his phone, snapping pictures with the goggles. His face is gaunt, his eyes sunken. And his hair, where has his hair –

“Natasha,” he’s breathing, unable to draw his eyes away, “I’ve found him. I mean – he’s here. He’s in the house. Hold on, I’m patching through the pictures – “

Tony flits out of view, then waves back in, hands pressed to the glass. The curtain twitches, and then he's gone completely, disappeared, back into the dark bowels of the house where, for all Bucky knows, he no longer exists. "He was there," Bucky swears into his receiver, "I saw him."

"I see the pictures," Natasha says. "What should I do? Approach now or later?"

"Tomorrow," Bucky decides. He plays the clip over and over. Tony, hands on the glass, desperate to look outside. Pulled away by someone; slow it down, play again. A large hand, and a hint of white hair.

  
   
The house is as imposing as it was the last time Natasha visited.  
   
“Hello,” she says, plastering on her best, sweetest smile. “I’m Natasha From Romanoff – I believe we’ve met before? At Tony’s birthday?”  
   
“You can’t be here,” the steward says, flatly. “You need to leave.”  
   
“Do I? I just wanted to visit – to see Tony, you understand. General Ross made it clear I was always very welcome – “  
   
“Not anymore.”  
   
Natasha smiles again, brighter. “Well,” she says stubbornly. “I suppose I can just wait until he comes down, and let him decide for himself.”  
   
“He won’t come down.”  
   
“Why?” Natasha asks, sharp. “Is he not here? Have you sent him away?”  
   
John has the face of a man who knows he’s said too much. “You – do you how dangerous this is?” He hisses. “Do you know what could happen to Tony if you show up like this?”  
   
“I suppose I’ll find out.”  
   
“Just – wait there,” he mutters, turning on his heel. Maybe he hopes to leave her there, let her grow bored. If he thinks she would be so easily way-laid –  
   
“You,” Ross says, opening the door. “You need to leave.”  
   
Another smile, brighter, this time with teeth. “Mr Ross!” She says, like he’s her oldest friend. “I’ve come to see Tony. You always said I was welcome, and so here I am, to see my closest – “  
   
“You can’t see him.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“You know damn well why.” He shuts the door, or tries to; Natasha wedges her foot into the gap, doesn’t even wince when it slams on her ankle.  
   
“That may be,” she says levelly, “but I’m not sure why I can’t see Tony. Unless, there’s something wrong with him. Or he’s not here.”  
   
“There is something wrong with him.”  
   
“Oh?”  
   
“Yes. He has – “ a beat, “pneumonia.”  
   
“Pneumonia,” Natasha says, flatly. “Tony has pneumonia. In summer.”  
   
“You can get it in summer.”  
   
“How did he get it?”  
   
“He – swam,” Ross lies.  
   
“Swam?”  
   
“In the lake.”  
   
“What lake?”  
   
“The _lake,”_ he says, irritably. “I really don’t have time for this. He’s sleeping, and he won’t want to be disturbed by _you.”_  
   
A thump, like something heavy being dropped on the floor from up above. Their eyes both drift upwards.  
   
“And what’s that?” She asks dryly. “Is Tony jumping on the floor? With pneumonia?”  
   
“Probably an accident. He’s clumsy.”  
   
Screaming. Tony’s screaming.  
   
Ross purses his lips. “ _Fucking hell,”_ he mutters under his breath. “John!” He calls. “See to Tony, would you?”  
   
Natasha glares. “Let me see him.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“You’re a monster. Let me _see_ him.”  
   
“ _No.”_  
   
Natasha pushes past. Ross goes to grab her by the shoulders, but she can take an old man. She ducks, twists, brings Ross’s arm behind his back –  
   
And he in-steps on her foot, slams her against the wall, and holds her there. Just like that. Ross, an _old man,_ somehow –  
   
“You need to leave,” he says, breath hot in her face, eyes cold, and God, she never thought – he _can_ be intimidating, when he wants to be. “Why’s he screaming?” Natasha pants, trying to wiggle her way past.  
   
“Why is the sky blue? I don’t know. He’s an attention seeker. He thinks I’ll go easy on him if he makes a scene.”  
   
“Tony!” She cries out, but he slams his palm over her mouth.  
   
“ _Don’t,”_ he growls. “Don’t you dare. _Leave.”_  
   
Muffled, Natasha spits, and shakes her head. Ross presses his arm against her throat. He presses, and then presses some more.  
   
“You’re going to leave,” he says calmly. “You’re not going to come back. If you do… I’m not afraid to put Tony away again, if that’s what it takes, understand? In fact, day after day I question why I even bother keeping him around. Maybe it’s time to have him packed off and shipped out, huh?”  
   
Natasha says nothing. Ross removes his hand.  
   
“Good girl,” he mocks. “See? You can do it too. All you bitches are the same after a good – “  
   
She spits in his face.  
   
Ross stands there for a moment like he can’t possibly imagine what just happened. Then, he wipes down his cheek with the back of his hand. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll make sure Tony pays for that tonight.”  
   
“You won’t,” she swears.  
   
“I will. Now get the fuck out of my house. You can’t _beat_ me, don’t you understand? You’re not clever enough, you’ll never be strong enough, now _get the fuck out.”_  
   
He grabs her by the arm and throws her out. Fucking hell, he’s _strong._ He’s – unbelievably strong. No wonder Tony couldn’t –  
   
“Come back,” he sneers, “and I’ll throw Stark in a cell with his precious Captain. Two for one, Romanoff. Don’t fucking test me.”  
  
   
Ross is standing, two suitcases packed, hands on hips in the hall. “There you are,” he says, irritated, always irritated. He hates Tony. He never has a kind word for Tony. Not even now that Tony is as good as gold, silent, a shadow, not even now that Tony will do everything Ross wants and never complain. Would it hurt Ross to say something kind? Would it hurt him to not always sneer? It makes Tony feel like dirt.  
   
“I’m going,” Ross says, flatly, staring down at him without even looking at him, really. Looking through him, like he’s not even there. “I won’t be back till next week, obviously.”  
   
Tony blinks. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t realise – why?”  
   
Ross rolls his eyes. Tony is stupid. “Do you not watch the news?” He drawls.  
   
Ross is Tony’s alpha, he should tell Tony these things himself. “No,” he says, measuredly. “I don’t really – “  
   
“It was rhetorical.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
Pull the rug out from under him. Make him look like an idiot. Obie would do that.  
   
Tony stands there, uncomfortable, until Ross gestures expectantly. “Well?” He says, “I’m going. What do you say?”  
   
Tony opens his mouth, shuts it. “Bye,” he manages, lamely.  
   
“That’s all? ‘Bye.’ Tony, I could be vice-president in seven weeks and that’s all you can manage?”  
   
“Bye,” Tony repeats, slightly more forceful. “I hope you have a good trip.”  
   
“Do I get a kiss? For good luck?”  
   
Tony’s stomach turns circles. He feels a little sick. Reaching up, he presses a dry, chaste kiss on Ross’s lips. “Good luck,” he says, and his throat is raw. For some reason, it comes out as a rasp.  
   
“There,” Ross says smugly, “was that so hard?”  
   
Maybe it’s rhetorical. Tony says nothing.  
   
“I have a present for you,” Ross continues, covering the silence. “I thought you might appreciate it.”  
   
Another collar. More lingerie. A new pair of shoes. Ross hands him some kind of leather embossed thing, heavy, wrapped in a bow. “It’s beautiful,” Tony says dully, not bothering to open it. “Thank you so much. I’ll wear it just for you,” he drones by rote.  
   
Ross looks annoyed. “Have you even seen it?” He says, “Open it. Go on, open it.”  
   
Tony pulls apart the ribbon and unrolls the leather. Oh. It’s tools. Screwdrivers, pliers. All common household tools they probably have lying around the house somewhere, except Ross has jazzed it up with his initials and a fancy leather case. AoR. Anthony of Ross.  
   
Tony’s eye twitches.  
   
“Well?” Ross demands. “Do you like it?”  
   
“I love it,” Tony says dully.  
   
Ross’s eyes narrow, cruelly. “You know, Tony, I’m trying to be kind to you. I think I just gave you a really nice gift, and you’re being a bit ungrateful.”  
   
“I don’t need tools,” Tony says. “I can’t use these.”  
   
“Excuse me? What was that?”  
   
“Thank you,” Tony says. “It was really thoughtful of you. I’ll use them every day.”  
   
“You’re being rude. You’re being sarcastic. How can you be so ungrateful?”  
   
Tony wasn’t being sarcastic. He’s just trying to tell Ross what he wants to hear. “I mean it,” Tony says, but with hindsight, he’s so dampened that any attempt at enthusiasm is probably falling flat. “It’s just I can’t use them. I have nothing to fix.”  
   
“Find something,” Ross snaps. “Keep yourself busy. Jesus, do I have to spell everything out for you now, Tony? Use your head.” He drills his finger into the side of Tony’s skull, and Tony doesn’t move, just lets him. “Get some common sense into that big fat head, huh?” He says, poking him again and again. It’s sharp. It hurts.  
   
“Knock it off,” Tony mumbles, swatting him away. He thinks what Ross really wants to do is throttle him, but his twisted ethical code won’t let him. Emotionally torturing him is about as close as he can get.  
   
“Ah, so you _can_ speak up for yourself,” Ross laughs, although it’s mean. “That’s good, because for a while I thought you’d turned into a sock puppet.”  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have anything to say. It’s true.  
   
Ross’s laughter tails off, and he sighs. “You know,” he says conversationally, “I really can’t tell. Is this real? Or are you just trying to make me live in a joyless purgatory?”  
   
Tony looks up, sharp. “What do you mean?”  
   
“I mean, do you think if you’re sullen enough I’ll let you go? Or divorce you? Are you just trying to make life difficult?”  
   
“No,” Tony says, quietly. “I just don’t have anything to say.”  
   
“You’re Tony From Stark. You always have something to say.”  
   
“I’m Of Ross. I have been, now, for a while.”  
   
“Not Of Rogers,” Ross teases. Taunts, is probably the more accurate word.  
   
Tony doesn’t rise to it. He says nothing.  
   
“Say something,” Ross orders. “Say anything. _Respond._ Tony. _Talk to me.”_  
   
Tony looks at him. He does sound slightly… desperate. _Trying to fix what he’s broken,_ Tony thinks drowsily.  
   
Time ticks on in silence. Ross grows impatient. “Don’t you have anything to say?”  
   
“I don’t know what to say that will make you happy with me,” Tony admits, honest. “I don’t actually like you saying cruel things.”  
   
“Liar,” Ross spits. “You’re just trying to drive me crazy. Make me feel bad.”  
   
Tony shakes his head slowly, laboriously. “I’m not,” he says. “I’m sorry, this is just how I feel – “  
   
“Then feel better,” Ross snaps.  
   
“The – pills,” Tony tries. “They make it hard. I did some research – “  
   
“Oh, you did some research, did you? So now you’re an expert?”  
   
“I just mean that I think it would help if I lowered my dose. Or maybe, didn’t take them anymore. I don’t care about – about sex, or how they make me feel, they just make it hard to _think – “_  
   
“That’s the point.”  
   
“But you can’t – hate me because I’ve slowed down and then not want to change it. I hate how I feel – “  
   
“They’re supposed to make you stupid, not sullen. Lots of you are chirpier when you take them. Look at Nick of Warren. He’s happy.”  
   
“He’s neurotic.”  
   
“He’s _lively._ And good-natured. Just like omegas should be.”  
   
“There are withdrawal symptoms,” Tony continues. “Really unpleasant symptoms. At least on the anti-depressants all I had – “  
   
“You gained weight.”  
   
“At least I could – _think.”_  
   
Ross examines him coldly, coolly. He holds out his hand. “Give me the tools,” he says, shortly.  
   
Tony does.  
   
“You’re going to double your dose,” Ross tells him. “I don’t think they’re working like they should.”  
   
“I won’t,” Tony says, and the defiance feels strange, like putting on a coat he hasn’t worn in a while. “I won’t do that.”  
   
“You will. I’ll stick you in the basement for a month if you don’t.”  
   
“I’d rather you just beat me, and get it over with.”  
   
“No. I’m not – “  
   
“A sadist. Sure. You’ve said.”  
   
Ross is cold. “I can see why Stane beat you,” he says. “God knows, if I was anyone else – “  
   
“You’re not anyone else. You’re you. And you are a sadist. You get off on my pain.”  
   
“You’re not in pain. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to make you _better –_ “  
   
“Let me go,” Tony says, simply. “I would respect you if you let me go. You can keep everything, I don’t care, please just let me be happy – “  
   
“No.”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Then I have nothing to say.”  
   
   
Ross isn’t hard to find.  
   
He flags himself wherever he goes, telegraphs every move. Cameras follow him everywhere. Rallies, school openings, sickening displays of flag waving and anthem singing and hand-on-heart patriotism.  
   
Bucky follows him all the way to this hotel room, ten miles outside of Orlando. The Sunshine State is leaning democrat; Warren and his cronies are trying their best to get their hooks in. But Bucky needs answers, and Ross needs to be forthcoming. He won’t be long. Just a quick meeting, to show him where they stand.  
   
“Are you going to kill me?” Ross asks, jerking at his tie.  
   
“No,” Bucky says slowly. “I don’t think so.”  
   
“Oh goody,” he grumbles, helping himself to some whiskey from a crystal decanter. “You here about Rogers or Stark?”  
   
“Stark,” Bucky says. “Both,” he corrects.  
   
Ross grunts. “Should I call security?”  
   
“If you want to make a scene, go on ahead. I won’t hurt you.”  
   
“This looks bad on you, you know. Ex-assassin breaks into the future vice-president’s hotel room?” Ross tsks, sits himself opposite Bucky. “No, no. Not a good look at all.”  
   
“Look worse if I release these pictures.” Bucky fans them out on the table; Tony pressed against the window, haggard and drawn. Sickly. Natasha’s audio is worse.  
   
“None of that means anything,” Ross says blithely, but Bucky can tell he’s shaken. Sure, you can explain a lot of it away. Tony’s supposed to have been sick, and Natasha was technically trespassing. But Tony’s screams. And the fact he hasn’t been seen in weeks.  
   
“You don’t want him,” Bucky says, flatly. “You keep him cooped up inside, and he’s losing his mind.”  
   
“Don’t want him? What gave you that idea?”  
   
“You locked him up.”  
   
“Doesn’t mean I don’t like owning him,” Ross says casually, rolling his whiskey round his glass.  
   
Bucky rages, internally. “People are talking,” he says. “They’re wondering where he is. Even you can’t – eradicate his achievements from history, he’s still – “  
   
“An omega. A bratty one, too. And a pretty face. People don’t care as much as you think. You’d be surprised how easy it is to limit someone’s achievements when they’re got a pretty face and a great ass. People don’t really want to care about anything else.”  
   
“But people notice he’s not with you. You’re the – vice president, or soon to be, if you win.”  
   
“We’ll win.”  
   
“Fine. But people _have_ talked, you know it. They wonder why you’re hiding him, maybe he’s insubordinate, maybe you’ve hurt him beyond repair, fucked up his face or worse – “  
   
“Pneumonia,” Ross says lazily, “he’s had pneumonia. And you taking him will solve that problem, will it? Tony will suddenly become amicable to being photographed?”  
   
“We can strike a deal. Let us just – make him healthy again, and you can take your stupid fucking photographs – “  
   
“And when we win? We’ll be moving. I’m sure Tony’s told you,” Ross says casually, “that I don’t mean for Warren to be President for long. I have plenty of impeachable offences under my belt to dole out when I need to. When Tony’s the First Consort of the United States, am I supposed to believe he’ll just come back willingly?”  
   
Tony would hate that, Bucky thinks. He’d hate having to be in the public eye in _that_ way, as a side-show for Ross’s star. It would ruin him, if he isn’t ruined already. “You’re torturing him,” Bucky says, quietly. “Even you have to see that. You’re hurting him. I don’t know – I don’t know how much more he can take. One day, Ross, you’re gonna walk in and he’s going to be hanging from the ceiling, and _then_ what will that do for your ratings? People aren’t _stupid._ And you know how people turn when someone dies – they forget they hated them at all. Is that what you want?”  
   
“For Tony to kill himself? No. He won’t, though. We watch him, all day.”  
   
“He’s resourceful.”  
   
“Not resourceful enough to break out of a guest bedroom, huh?” Ross dead-pans, slightly smug.  
   
“I said resourceful, not fucking supernatural. He can’t walk through walls. If you leave him in a room and drug him to the gills, what the fuck is he supposed – “  
   
“I’m just saying, I thought he was clever. In fact, I feel cheated. I expected more.”  
   
“What would it take,” Bucky asks, flatly, ignoring it, not rising to Ross’s bait. “What could we give you, to let Tony leave.”  
   
“Depends, what are you proposing?”  
   
“We’ll get a place not far from here. You can take him for his heats. He’ll attend one public gathering a month, your choice.”  
   
“And when he gets pregnant?” Ross asks, like it’s a given. “What happens then?”  
   
“We cross that bridge when we come to it.”  
   
“And you won’t spirit him away,” Ross says, and it’s not a question. It’s blunt statement. They both know they will, given the first opportunity. “You won’t disappear into the night.”  
   
“You’ve won,” Bucky says flatly. “You’ve got what you want. You’ve got Steve, and you’ve got Tony, and you’ve got us caught so we can’t fight back without either of them being – you’ve won. Is that enough? Is that enough for you? Can you stop treating Tony like he’s collateral in your little – “  
   
“He’s not collateral. He’s very much my target. He really screwed me over when he fucked your buddy, Barnes. Really screwed me over,” Ross says, self-pitying.  
   
“Oh boo hoo,” Bucky snaps, half-shocked at his own vitriol. “Your nasty old cock wasn’t enough for him and you treated him like a house-pet so he went elsewhere. Sorry if I don’t cry for you, Ross.”  
   
“That’s not the point. He could have _carried._ And passed it off as mine.”  
   
Bucky snorts. “Oh sure,” he says, “it would have been such a secret when the baby came out blond and built like a line-backer.”  
   
“You’d be surprised. I’m pretty spritely myself.”  
   
“You’re an old man. A delusional old man, and a sadist.”  
   
“I’m not a sadist,” Ross says, and he cracks, snaps right back at Bucky, almost a snarl. “I’m not a sadist, I’m _not._ I only did what was in my rights, he’s _mine,_ he needed to be taught a lesson – “  
   
“So you admit you wanted to hurt him?”  
   
“He needed to be brought down a peg or two,” Ross hisses, “everyone said so. That’s what they told me when I married him, and I didn’t listen, I let him waltz round around with his suits, and his flash cars, and – “  
   
“Bullshit,” Bucky scoffs. “He was _miserable._ Miserable from the start, and you know it. You know you forced him, you know he ran out of options – “  
   
“The uppity bitch should be so glad I even _glanced_ at him after everything he’d done – “  
   
“And you weren’t complaining when you got to take him every month. It must have been nice,” Bucky simpers, mocking. “Just those brief, four days a month, when you could pretend that you actually had Tony Stark in your bed and he was willing, that he was _hot_ for you, that maybe he really even loved you – “  
   
“Oh and like you’re any different,” Ross spits, mouth twisting cruelly. “I saw you, I remember. Fawning over him like a lovesick bitch in heat. Even now – do you think he’ll be _grateful?_ That he’ll come to you, crawling on his knees, thanking you for saving him from the bad old alpha, the big mean man who’s locked him up in a tower like you’re a fucking prince charming? He won’t, you know. Not for you. You’re half an alpha, Barnes.”  
   
“I don’t want Tony to crawl anywhere.” The visual image makes him queasy.  
   
“Oh sure,” Ross says smugly. “Of course you don’t. You’re just the one exception to the rule.”  
   
Bucky shrugs, casual. “Well I am half an alpha, you said it yourself.”  
   
“If you think I’d ever let him near you, half an alpha or not, you have to be more stupid than you look, you gormless prick.”  
   
“One day, you’ll come home, and Tony will be swinging from the ceiling.”  
   
“That’s disgusting,” Ross snarls. “That is utterly – take that back.”  
   
“I’m telling you the truth.”  
   
“Tony is _fine.”_  
   
“If he’s so fine, let us see him. Let Natasha see him.”  
   
“Why, so she can break my neck?”  
   
“So we know he’s alive.”  
   
“He’s alive. There. Happy?”  
   
“We’ll go public,” Bucky says, shortly. “We’ll tell everyone.”  
   
Ross scoffs. “Tell them what? That Tony’s a dirty whore who can’t keep it in his pants?”  
   
“That you beat him. That the reason he hasn’t been seen in months is because you’ve beaten him so badly – “  
   
“Not true. Fake news.”  
   
“So? By the times the media catches wind, it won’t matter. The election’s, what, two months away? Perfect timing. And I guess you could prove he wasn’t hurt, if you released him, let him out, maybe took a picture or two, but you and I _both_ know you can’t do that, because you’ve damaged him, and the second people on the outside see the fucking _mess_ you’ve made – “  
   
“I don’t need to be blackmailed. I’ve done nothing wrong.”  
   
“So let Tony see his friend. Where’s the harm? What’s the crime? He should be allowed to see a friend once in a while, he’s broken no laws, you can’t keep him on _house arrest –_ “  
   
“From Romanoff is a dirty snake, I’d sooner let an actual viper into my home – “  
   
“Three days,” Bucky says. “You have three days to let Natasha see Tony, or we go public. We tell everyone _exactly_ what’s been happening.”  
   
It’s their only weapon. The only thing they can hold over Ross. The threat of a fuss. The threat that his plans for the White House might be but even slightly at risk. They both know it’s not worth one little meeting.  
   
“I’m on the trail,” Ross says tersely. “Three days. Romanoff can come to the house on Tuesday, but she’s not staying for more than two minutes. She sees him, she _validates_ that he’s alive, and well, and then she clears out. If she stays any longer, it’s trespassing. I’ll have her arrested.”  
   
“Fine.”  
   
“Fine.” Ross grunts. “I liked you better when you didn’t talk, you know that?”  
   
“I’m sure.”  
   
Ross stands. “Don’t you want to know how he is?” He asks, casually.  
   
Bucky looks up. “If you let me see Tony I’d be able – “  
   
“Not Tony. Rogers. The _Captain._ Don’t you want to know?”  
   
“Steve can take care of himself.”  
   
Ross smirks. “Sure he can,” he mocks. “You know, he and Tony are kinda alike. They don’t do well in tight spaces.”  
   
   
He sits by the window.  
   
Double the dose.  
   
He is…  
   
Not real.  
   
It had been rainy for some days. Now, the sun is out. It’s early September. Tony is…  
   
He sits by the window, and hours drip by.  
   
For lunch, John cuts his sandwich into small triangles, like you would for a child. Tony picks at the meat, and leaves the rest discarded. He rests his chin on his knees. He watches the trees, with just a hint of the leaves starting to turn.  
   
“Would you like anything?” John asks him. “A drink? Something to read? I can change the channel, if you like?”  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything. It’s nearing late afternoon. He’ll need his nap.  
   
He naps.  
   
He wakes up in the evening. John sits him in a chair, and lets him listen to music while he sorts Ross’s tax return. He microwaves a meal for dinner, Tony doesn’t eat it. At nine on the dot, he helps Tony up the stairs, and that’s when the trouble starts.  
   
Twice, John has to move Tony from where he’s found rest in the hallway. He prefers the impermanence. The lack of doors to lock. Can’t lock someone in a hallway. Try it. You can’t. No doors. Hah.  
   
“The couch,” Tony will ask, trying to reason. John doesn’t like outward shows of insanity; they make him feel bad. “Let me sleep on the couch. He doesn’t have to know. You don’t have to _tell_ him – “  
   
John is impassable on these nights. His face betrays nothing. He starts locking the hatch to Tony’s bedroom. Tony will slams his hands against the floor until he passes out. It doesn’t end. He starts again. Repeat.  
   
   
“Two minutes,” John tells him, shortly. “Ross says two minutes only. Any longer and I call the cops.”  
   
Two minutes? Two days? Two arms, two legs, two ears. Two pills, every day. Two alphas. Two 12 o’clock’s twice a day, things come in pairs. Tony used to think he was a pair, maybe not so much now. Maybe he’s not built for a pair, maybe he’s built for a pack. Maybe he needs –  
   
“Are you listening? Do you understand what I’m saying?” John is ee-nunce-ee-ating ver-ee pree-cise-lee. Tony blinks at him. “This is to get the bitch off our backs, nothing more. You had pneumonia. Do you understand? _You had pneumonia.”_  
   
Tony ignores him, rests his head against the window. It’s sunny today. He aches. _I want to go outside,_ he thinks. _I’d do anything to spend ten seconds outside._  
   
“You said alone,” she snaps. She snaps. Who snaps?  
   
“You are alone.”  
   
“Leave the room. Leave us, or I’ll snap your neck, damn the consequences.”  
   
Door slam. Heavy footsteps. Tony wouldn’t even go far. He’d just sit under the tree, and he wouldn’t try to run.  
   
Natasha’s creeping up behind him. Why? Is she trying to scare him? Like at a surprise party, maybe. Tony had a surprise party when he was a kid, his whole class turned up. It was awesome. It was one of the best days of his life. His mom made cake.  
   
“Tony?” She says, almost a whisper, a question. “Tony, what did they – “  
   
“You came before,” Tony remembers. There had been someone, shouting with Ross. He’d been in the guest room, Ross had put him there because… he’d broken something. Or shouted. He’d been a bad boy.  
   
“I’ve been trying to get a meeting for weeks. I was told – you had pneumonia, and then that you were in heat, and finally I think he couldn’t keep putting me off, especially since Steve gets out soon. We’ve been watching. Bucky hasn’t left the trees in weeks. You – Tony? Could you look at me?”  
   
Tony chews his nails. “There,” he says, pressing one fingertip against the window pane. “See that tree? There’s a nest in there. I see the bird. I saw them make it.”  
   
A hand on his brow. Tony turns.  
   
Natasha’s eyes are big and brown and warm. She looks sad, and scents scared. “I’m alright,” Tony smiles, “I’m over the worst of it now.”  
   
“Did he hurt you?” She asks, lowly.  
   
“Mmm hmm,” Tony nods, turning back to the window. “Yeah, mmm hmm. He hurt me, alright. I’ve thought – about so much. Had so much time to think now, and I think – “  
   
“Bucky didn’t see you, not once. You never the left the house. We didn’t even know if you were here, we thought – we were so sure he had you sent away, until I scented you. God, you must – Tony?”  
   
How does the song go? Led Zepplin, Stairway to Heaven. It was always so scandalous that Tony liked heavy rock, it used to drive Obie crazy. It goes, something something, stairway to heaven, how does it go? Tony tries to hum the tune.  
   
“He’s drugged you,” Natasha states. “I can scent it on you. What is that? Tony? What’s he given you?”  
   
Tony won’t ask about Steve. He won’t ask. He won’t even ask.  
   
“We’re going to get you out,” she whispers fiercely. “Ross… he can be tougher than we think, but we’ll do what we need. Steve will do what it takes. Do you understand? Tony, I need to know you’ll be okay if we – “  
   
 “Will Steve visit?”  
   
“Steve’s in prison, Tony,” Natasha says gently, like she’s trying not to spook him.  
   
“Right, but after,” Tony says, distractedly.  
   
“Sure, he’ll come after.”  
   
Tony settles back down against the window. “It’s nice you visited,” he says. “It’s nice to know Bucky’s in the trees. Will he visit?”  
   
“I don’t think that would make Ross very happy, Tony.”  
   
“Hmm,” he agrees, dolefully. “Nothing makes Ross happy.”  
   
“Tony,” Natasha is saying, quiet, urgent. “If we could get you out of here, would you come with us?”  
   
“You can’t,” he says blithely, confident in this fact. “Steve in prison. I belong to Ross. You’d be criminals. All be for nothing. It would all be for nothing.”  
   
“But if we made a deal,” she whispers. “If we gave him something, and in return, you came and lived with us – “  
   
“Forever?”  
   
“For as long as we can have you.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “Won’t work,” he says. “Ross won’t let me. Wants me to have his baby.”  
   
“An agreement. Maybe – “ Natasha’s nose wrinkles, she scents disgust, “maybe we tell him you’ll take your heats with him on neutral ground. It doesn’t matter. What matters is you understand – “  
   
“Look!” The bird in the tree has reappeared, twigs in it’s beak. “I told you! It’s building a nest!”  
   
“Tony,” Natasha says again, with that _seriousseriousimportant_ voice. Her hand is squeezing his wrist. “Tony, I need to know that – you would be willing for us to anything to get you out. I need your permission. I need to know that you want this, for sure.”  
   
“For sure,” Tony parrots. “For sure.”  
   
“You want to leave? You’ll let us?”  
   
“For sure,” he says again, tracing the window with his finger. “For sure. For sure.”  
   
   
Everything is twisted inside him. In his stomach, in his head.  
   
Anxiety. He’s anxious. Like something thick in the pit of his chest, clawing. There’s not a moment’s respite. And the pills, they dull a lot of it. They dull everything. He feels nothing of anything, except worry, worry, worry.  
   
He sits by windows and presses his hands to the glass. His brow. The tip of his nose. He breathes against it, catches the draft, watches his breath steam the pane. So close. He’s so close.  
   
The front door opens. He’s not locked in, not physically.  
   
He’s just cowed. Not worth the risk. Nothing is worth the risk anymore.  
   
   
He likes to imagine Bucky is in the trees.  
   
Natasha said so, but maybe she just said it to make him feel better. Tony goes to every window in the house and stares outside. He squints at every tree. No Bucky.  
   
He sits on his seat and imagines Bucky coming down from the tree and knocking on the window. He opens the window, magically. Tony goes out, and they sit under the tree and have a picnic. Steve’s there too, and Natasha. It’ll be summer. There will be sun in Tony’s hair. He’ll make everyone laugh, he’ll be so funny, and clever. Bucky will secretly think how pretty he is, and Tony will secretly tease, and Steve will wrap his big warm arms around his shoulders and kiss the top of his head –  
   
   
Bake a cake, bake a cake, bake a cake. Put it in the oven, nice and warm, a cake for you and me.  
   
Tony hums. They have guests. They need cake. No one told him to, but if he does this Ross will be pleased. Happy. He will see how loyal Tony is, for sure.  
   
“Something’s burning,” Ross says dourly. He’s standing in the hallway, coat slung over his arm, suitcase behind him. Tony wants to be sick. He’s back. Tony is so happy he’s back. But he wants to be sick, also.  
   
“Sorry, Sir.” John tells him. “I thought I could leave him for an hour, I should have organized something.”  
   
“Tony,” Ross says authoritatively, “what on earth are you doing? It’s eleven o’clock, go to bed. Jesus, what a mess. Can you get someone to clean this up before lunch? I have people coming.”  
   
“I’ll work out something,” John says.  
   
“What’s wrong with him?”  
   
“The pills, I think.”  
   
“He’ll acclimatize.”  
   
“I – if you don’t mind me saying, Sir, the fact he hasn’t been allowed out in seven weeks might have something to do with it, too.”  
   
Tony has bitten his nails so much he has nothing more to bite. He’s down to his fingertips, now. “No,” he tries to say, “I was just making a cake. Uh…” ringing in his ears, fuzzy head. “For you,” he manages, “for you – coming home, I think.”  
   
“John, take him back to his room, would you.”  
   
“No!” Tony cries, and he almost stumbles lurching away from the counter. “No, I’ll tidy it up. I’ll tidy it up,” he says and smiles, or tries to. “I’m not even tired.” (He hasn’t slept in two days). “Let me clean it, and then I’ll – make canapes for the guests. Don’t – I don’t need to be back in the room. I don’t.”  
   
“He won’t sleep, Sir.”  
   
“And what, I’m supposed to just leave him looking like this? What will the Governor think?”  
   
“I’m not saying let him sit with you. Just let him go for a walk.”  
   
Ross snorts. “Right. And leave him there like a worm for a bird to swoop in and pick up? He must think I’m stupid. Tony, drop the act, go to bed. I’m tired.”  
   
He turns to leave, and Tony hasn’t got words, he’s just fretting, chewing his fingers, shaking his head, stomach a knot. He _can’t_ go back to that room, there isn’t any way he can articulate it, but the second he’s in there, and the door shuts, he’s a prisoner, a prisoner to his mind, and he can’t take it any longer. He tried to bake the cake, to show Ross he was sorry. Ringing in his ears, eyes start to burn, he’s fragile, like fresh glass.  
   
“I – I don’t think it’s an act, Sir.”  
   
Ross turns. “Excuse me?”  
   
“I don’t think it’s an act.” John mutters something, too low for Tony to hear, and Ross grunts.  
   
“I can’t have him looking like this. It gives the wrong impression. Put him in the attic if you have to, Jesus, if he starts that screaming again…”  
   
Hidden away like a shameful secret. In a moment of clarity, Tony realizes Ross doesn’t want anyone to see what he’s done. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s screwed up Tony beyond repair. “It’s better if you keep him busy,” John is saying, talking about him like he’s not there. “You know, I let him bake, we watch TV, I think it would be better for him if he could do some gardening, too. It’s not right. It’s not healthy that someone doesn’t leave the house.”  
  
“I just don’t have time for this, John. And I can’t have him underfoot. And after – fucking hell, how will he ever be what the omega of the vice-president needs to be?”  
   
More muttering. Tony catches ‘scared’ and ‘dangerous’ and ‘hurt himself’.  
   
Ross makes a noise of frustration. “I’m exhausted,” he snaps, “I don’t want to deal with this, first thing when I get home after a week. I don’t care what he does. Just keep him out of view, John. I won’t have this.”  
   
He turns, snarling, pointing his finger at Tony and marching forward until he can wheedle it in his chest. “ _You,”_ he spits, “you know what you’re doing. I won’t accept it, understand? Drop the cushy woe-is-me act or it’ll be three weeks. No, it’ll be another _month._ And I won’t need to think twice.”  
   
   
Tony –  
   
Where is he?  
   
His room. The attic. He’s on the floor, how did he get…  
   
The hatch is locked. Again. John locks it so Tony won’t wander the hallways at night. It’s bad now that Ross is home. John told him they need to show Ross that Tony isn’t crazy, so Ross doesn’t sent Tony away.  
   
His fingers are bleeding, though. He must have fallen asleep trying to pry open the floor. “Let me out,” he croaks, slamming his bruised palms ineffectually against the wooden boards. “Let me out,” he says again, and the hatch rattles. “Please,” he tries, and then slams his fists in the ground over and over.  
   
John will ignore him, he always does, but so long as the sun stays down Tony is stuck here. _What if John forgets?_ His brain chatters, _what if I’m locked away forever? What if he never lets me out? What if I waste away? Got to get out. Have to get out. Get out, get out, get out –_  
   
Tony is sobbing, hands bruised and bloodied. He’ll lift each floorboard one by one if that’s what it takes. He’s screaming, maybe. _Let me out! Let me out! Fucking let me out!_ But if anyone hears, they don’t care. Hours slip by. The sky stays dark.  
   
Tony’s voice is so hoarse his screams turn to rasps. No one can say he isn’t committed; panic is one hell of a motivator. He can keep this up all night. He can keep this up forever. Someone, somewhere, needs to be listening. They need to know. They need to care –  
   
The hatch is rattling. Tony scampers back until his back hits the bedposts, waiting. John? Finally, to let him sleep on the couch? On the floor of the kitchen, where there’s no door to lock?  
   
Ross. He doesn’t look happy.  
   
“ _You,”_ he snarls, clambering into the room, face contorted with anger. He’s carrying – a golf club. A golf club? Why –  
   
He raises it, swings, brings it down inches from Tony’s head. It hits the metal bedframe with a _clang._ Tony can only hold out his hands to protect himself.  
   
“ _SHUT UP,”_ Ross screams in his face, _“SHUT THE FUCK UP! WHY DON’T YOU JUST – “_ He raises the club and bashes it against the floor, punctuates his words with brutal crashes. “ – _BE QUIET. I’M TRYING TO FUCKING SLEEP, TONY. ALL NIGHT! ALL_ FUCKING _NIGHT!”_  
   
Tony pushes his head back, lies himself flat on the floor, bears his belly and does an awkward shuffle away from Ross’s swinging club. He’s so angry. Tony’s never known him this angry, not even when he found out Tony did what he did with Steve. “I’m sorry,” Tony tries to say, but his voice really has gone.  
   
“Oh, you’re _sorry?!”_ Ross screams, knocking the club against the bedpost. Tony flinches. “ _You’re sorry?!_ That you’ve been keeping me up the whole – “ Ross lunges, Tony tries to scamper, Ross has Tony by the neck and is lifting him up bodily, throwing him against the bed. It doesn’t hurt. Ross is freakishly strong, but it doesn’t hurt.  
   
Tony twists, tries to break away, but Ross’s hand is clamped on his ankle. He pulls him down the bed, he grabs him by the back of the neck, he takes his shoulders and then he shakes him, like a rag doll.  
   
“ _I HAVE GUESTS!”_ He’s screaming. “ _I’ve been on the fucking trail all week and I come home for three lousy days and I have to deal with_ you – “ Ross is shaking him so hard his teeth are rattling in his mouth, “ – _screaming,_ like some kind of mentally deficient _child,_ making a mess in my fucking kitchen – “  
   
Tony’s head is spinning, and at first he doesn’t realise Ross has let him go. He slumps to the floor, almost gagging; his head goes round and round, and he’s –  
   
The cool, heavy metal of club resting on the back of his head. Tony goes very still. So does Ross. “Jesus,” Ross spits, “if I had just listened. Maybe all you need’s a good beating. Maybe Warren’s right, huh? Fucking hell, I’d love to beat the crap out of you Tony. Would you shut up then? Would that make you quiet?”  
   
Tony says nothing. Through bleary eyes, he stares at Ross’s bare feet.  
   
He throws the club away. “Fuck you,” he spits down at Tony. “Fuck you for making me do that.”  
   
Tony says nothing.  
   
“What’s the matter?” Ross asks, with a strange sense of finality. “What is it then, huh? You bored? Have I not given you enough to do? John says you’ve gone crazy. What do I do about it?”  
   
Ross suddenly seems open to reasonable discussion. Is it a trick? Tony doesn’t know. Warily, he sits himself up, shuffles back to keep his distance. Ross, for his part, doesn’t make any motion to follow him. He just glares, hand twitching, like he still wants to be holding the club.  
   
“I don’t like locked doors,” Tony croaks.  
   
“What was that? Speak up.”  
   
“The door.” Tony coughs, clears his throat. “I don’t – I don’t like it locked. It’s not rational. I’m sorry.”  
   
Ross’s eyes narrow. “Why was the door locked?”  
   
“Because – I walk at night.”  
   
“You walk?”  
   
“I like – the couch. Sometimes I like the kitchen. I like the floor better. Better than the rooms,” Tony tries to explain; Ross is so angry. He’s so mad. The vein on his neck is pulsing, he looks like he wants to break Tony’s neck. He doesn’t know what he can say.  
   
“You’re not – “ Ross deflates, slightly. “You’re not just putting this on, are you?”  
   
Putting on what? What does that mean? “I don’t understand,” Tony breathes, as if speaking any higher than a whisper will re-ignite Ross’s fuse. He seems calmer. His scent has gone – still annoyed, irritated, angry, frustrated. But he smells very sad, too. Maybe – if Tony takes a risk – tries to plead his case –  
   
“I tried to make you cake,” Tony blurts, all in one. “I thought you would like it, I’m sorry you didn’t, I was trying to – be good for you again, because I know I can be. If you want – to hit me,” he rambles, “that’s okay too, but please don’t surprise me because – then I feel sick, like I never know when. I’ll stay away tomorrow. I’ll be so silent you’ll think I never existed, but – “ Tony shuffles forward slightly, daring to inch away from his perch, “ – but please, please, please, don’t lock the door anymore. And please please please let me out. Just for an hour, I swear, I won’t run, I won’t complain, I’ll be so perfect, perfectly behaved that you’ll never know – “  
   
Tony’s stomach starts to twist, sweat on the back of his neck. His eyes feel fuzzy, like they’re growing hair, dry and aching, and his hands don’t feel real anymore. “Please,” he says again, because this is his natural state now, he’s a bitch that begs, he was never anything else, it was all a dream. He’s the perfect wife. He’s nothing else. He doesn’t want to be anything else. He wants to be whatever will mean he gets to leave this house. “I don’t feel real anymore. I don’t feel like I exist.”  
   
Ross has slumped. He’s sitting with his back to the bedframe, one leg stretched out in front of him, head in his hand. The club lies discarded. Tony chews his nails, he waits for a verdict.  
   
After a time, Ross looks up. He’s rubbing his mouth, like he’s thinking, but he could just be thinking about one more torture, or degradation, or some other way to make Tony feel like the dirt under his shoe. “I can’t let you outside,” he says eventually. “I think your old friends are staking the house. I can’t prove it, that stealth tech you dreamed up is too good, but – if I let you, they’ll pick you up, and I’ll never see you again.”  
   
Tony buries his head in his knees. He doesn’t want Ross to see him cry.  
   
“Tony, don’t – do that,” Ross says, like he’s trying to be gentle. “It’s alright, boy. I’ll figure something out. Damn Warren, I’ll send you somewhere nice. Not a facility, somewhere – “ he blows air, “ – I haven’t figured it out yet, but somewhere nice and private. I’ll buy you a house, how about that? And you’ll be able to go out wherever you want, and – build things,” he says lamely.  
   
This is the first time Ross has been kind to him in months. Hell, it’s the first time _anyone’s_ been kind to him, except that brief visit from Natasha. “You mean that?” He croaks.  
   
“Sure,” Ross says, like he’s trying to believe it himself. “Warren – Warren’s got ideas for you, Tony. He either wants you on the trail or packed away in a cell. I’ve tried to reason with him, but – don’t you worry. I’ve got a little something up my sleeve. He knows he can’t be dictating what I do with my own omega for much longer.”  
   
“Is Warren – “ Tony sniffs, wipes down his face with his sleeve, clears his throat. “Is he coming tomorrow?”  
   
“He is.”  
   
“Do I – will I – “  
   
“How about I get John to help you freshen up a bit, and so long as you show your face once or twice, maybe you can spend some time with Nick of Warren.”  
   
Nick. Nick! Yes! To be able to talk to someone – yes! Yes! “Do you promise?” He croaks.  
   
“Of course I do,” Ross says, more confident now that he’s making a promise he can keep.  
   
A brief pause. “Is Nick bringing the baby?”  
   
“What?”  
   
“The baby. His baby. Is she coming too?”  
   
“I suppose so.”  
   
“If – if I’m very good,” he asks quietly, “and if I do everything like you want, and like Warren wants, do you think I’ll be able to see her too?”  
   
Ross is frowning at him, mouth slightly open, brow furrowed in – frustration? Confusion? Anger? “Sure, Tony,” Ross says, maybe not understanding, “I’ll especially ask Warren if you can hold the baby. Is that good?”  
   
Tony nods. He doesn’t dare ask for more.  
   
“Tony?”  
   
He looks up. Ross is staring at him, unsure. He looks – frail. Maybe that’s not the right word, considering he lifted Tony up by his throat and threw him on the bed. But in his night clothes, with his hair ruffled, and a slight paunch on his belly, he looks surprisingly non-threatening.  
   
_You’re stockholmed,_ Steve’s voice sings in his ear.  
   
“Don’t cry,” Ross whispers. “You know I really don’t like it when you – ah, dammit. It’s this room, it makes me sentimental. My wife – “ Ross waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. You’re like her, you know. More ways than one, she was small, brown hair, brown eyes. She was like you as well. Feisty, intelligent. Difference is she loved me,” he says musingly, “and I suppose the fact we were the same age helped.”  
   
Ross looks at him hopefully, as if he has something to say. He has nothing to say. He no longer wastes words.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Ross says awkwardly. “Sorry about the golf-club, that must have been – I can appreciate that must have been terrifying for you. It’s just been a really rough week, Warren is… up my ass, _constantly,_ and he’s such an asshole. Not that I have to tell you,” he adds, slinging his arm across his knee, “he really doesn’t like you, I’m afraid. Anyway, with the screaming – Jesus, you sounded like you were being tortured. What was I supposed to do?”  
   
“Let me out?” Tony says. He doesn’t mean it to be blunt, he isn’t trying to poke fun, or be sarcastic. He doesn’t do that anymore. He just meant –  
   
“Yeah. Well. Grab a blanket. Where was it you said you liked to sleep?”  
   
“Kitchen,” Tony says quickly, “kitchen is the best place. No doors.”  
   
“Tony… I can’t let you sleep on the kitchen floor.”  
   
“Pillows,” Tony suggests, head tipped to the side in case Ross takes the suggestion as a show of strength. “I can take the couch cushions.”  
   
“You don’t need to do that every time you talk to me.”  
   
“Do what?”  
   
“You know,” he says uncomfortably. “The – neck thing.” It’s rude to point out when omegas are being submissive. Despite himself, Tony flushes.  
   
“Sorry, I – don’t decide.”  
   
“No, it’s alright, it’s just – I would prefer, if, uh. I suppose I would prefer if maybe you had a little bite. It’s disconcerting,” Ross elaborates, “having you sort of… meek.”  
   
_It’s the pills,_ Tony thinks, but doesn’t press it. He’s won too much tonight; no use risking it all. “Can I sleep in the kitchen?”  
   
“The study. I promise I’ll keep the door unlocked. You have my word.”  
   
“What time do I need to be up tomorrow? Do you need help? Do I need to cook? Do I need to clean? Do I need – “  
   
“I have people coming. You need to sleep, and then when you’re good and rested, you can get yourself ready. Careful, going down the steps. I’ll take the blanket, you focus on getting down.”  
   
Ross trails him to the study. He watches Tony fluff pillows and settle himself on the couch, tucking the blanket around himself. “Your hands,” he says, as if noticing for the first time. “They’re really torn up.”  
   
It’s okay. Tony likes to lick his wounds in privacy. Ross gets him a glass of water and sets it on the side table. He asks if Tony wants the lights on or off. He presses his hand firmly, but almost comfortingly, on Tony’s head, and then leaves.  
   
   
Tony wants to see Nick, and he wants to see the baby.  
   
He’s never been one for the company of other omegas, not really. But he understands Nick now, more than he did before, and he’s sorry he was ever short with him, or mean. It’s hard on this medication. It’s like trying to catch butterflies with chopsticks.  
   
He wishes he had something for the baby. Some clothes, or a stuffed toy. It’s too late to buy one now. He wishes he had made an effort before. A baby! It’s a baby! Tony loves them, so much. He’s so jealous. He wishes he had a little someone to keep him company all the time, so he was never lonely. Ross would probably love him again if he had a baby, and finally, Tony would have someone who wouldn’t leave –  
   
“You look nice,” Ross says, awkwardly. Tony doesn’t, not really. There was no time to get him a suit that fits, and he’s lost so much weight it hangs off his frame. Still, it’s the thought that counts.  
   
How many times have they done this now, the two of them. Waited in the lounge for guests. It’s almost routine, familial, tradition. The rest of Tony’s life spent with Ross… maybe it won’t be so bad. Ross, with his grudging kindness. Tony, with his… acceptance. He doesn’t need to love him, not desperately. He just needs to be able to tolerate him, and maybe – after they have a child –  
   
“Are you alright?” Ross asks him.  
   
Tony smiles. “I’m fine,” he says, and pats Ross’s shoulder.  
   
If Ross finds this strange, he doesn’t have time to say. The door rings. _They’re here,_ Tony thinks. It’s alright. Nick will be there. Baby will be there.  
   
Every time Tony sees Warren, he’s struck by how much he reminds him of the grim reaper. He wonders how long until Warren dies. Soon, hopefully.  
   
“Where’s the baby,” Tony blurts, before saying hello. _Stupid, impolite, not-how-it’s-done --_  
   
“Oh yes,” Mary of Warren smiles, “your alpha mentioned that Ann was welcome. A pity, I just don’t think this is the place for a baby, she’s with Nick at the hotel. And of course, with your history…”  
   
“Of course,” Tony agrees, dully. He tries not to let his disappointment show. Stupid of him to get excited, really. Ross puts his hand on Tony’s shoulder, and squeezes it almost warmly.  
   
“Well, another time, maybe,” he says shortly. “Warren,” he says, clapping his hand against the other alpha in an awkward shake. “What time do the cameras get here?”  
   
“About an hour. It’s so good to see Tony with us today,” Warren smiles, glaring down at him benevolently. “Really, we need to get him in the photos. If I get asked one more time about where we’ve put him – “  
   
Warren cuts himself off. “Not that it matters, obviously,” he continues. “We’re going to win, God willing.” He pinches Tony’s chin in a way that could be familial but feels perverted. “Your hair,” he comments, eyes narrowed. “Ross, I thought we agreed – “  
   
“Don’t be a pedant, Warren,” Ross says in a way that sounds like joking, but has a hint of steel. “Let the boy grow his hair.”  
   
“That’s not very penitent.”  
   
“Tony and I are trying to put our differences behind us, not bring them up and share them with the world.”  
   
“That may be,” Warren says, “but we’re trying to send a message. It’s all about the base, Ross, they want to see that we have Of Ross here on _our_ side of the fence – “  
   
“Well what do you suggest,” Ross snaps, “should I take him upstairs and shave his head?”  
   
“Yes,” Warren says calmly. “That is what I suggest. In fact, I’ll do for you.”  
   
Tony’s hand strokes over where his hair has started to grow back in. The thought of Warren – it makes him want to be sick. Ross promised he wouldn’t have to _talk_ to him this long, he said he just had to show his face and then he could play with the baby, but the baby’s not here, and Warren is –  
   
“No,” Ross says, slowly. “That doesn’t sound appropriate. Especially with the cameras. Especially with all those unsavory rumors about the Avenger’s homecoming gala.”  
   
Yes, _yes,_ that’s right. Warren sent men to assault Tony, if he takes Tony now it looks _completely_ inappropriate, Ross is right, he’s so right, that’s so clever. Tony squeezes his arm in thanks and Ross pats his hand, smiling tersely, waiting for Warren’s reply.  
   
“Yes,” Warren says, slowly. “I suppose your right. We wouldn’t want to give credence to the preposterous story your omega dreamed up, would we? The hair can wait.”  
   
Ross organizes the security men milling around and Tony is at a loss. Nick was supposed to be here, what does he do now? He tries to catch Ross’s eye but his alpha is busy, and Tony is shunted out the way by two men with camera equipment.  
   
There are guests arriving. Tony shakes their hands and directs them to the lounge and tries not to sound crazy. A few of them comment how poorly he’s looking, they tell him they’re so glad he’s better, pneumonia, how awful, poor boy. Tony nods, and thanks them, and tries to smile, even though his suit jacket is hanging off his shoulders and he’d rather be anywhere else.  
   
“Pie,” Ross tells him. A reprieve! A task! “There’s a pie in the kitchen. Why don’t you get it ready and bring it out, and then we’ll tell them you’re too sick to stay down, hmm?”  
   
Tony is so glad he has Ross on his side now, even if it’s only for a little while because Ross feels guilty.  
   
He’s rifling through the refrigerator. Ross had food delivered while Tony was still tucked up on the couch. Pie. Pie. Pie. Find a pie, then you can go.  
   
The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he abruptly straightens. There’s someone else in the room. He knows it. He turns.  
   
“Don’t mind me,” Warren says, waving a hand. “I was just looking for some refreshments.”  
   
Lie. Tony handed him a scotch personally not five minutes ago. “The – caterers,” Tony thinks. “They’ll be able to help you.”  
   
“Oh, come on,” he smiles, almost charming. “Of Ross, I know you know how to fix a man a drink.”  
   
“I don’t.”  
   
“You do,” Warren says firmly, and he perches on a stool at the island counter. “You know you do.”  
   
“We don’t keep alcohol in the kitchen.” It’s true. Ross hasn’t, not since Tony went on one of his drink benders early on. It’s under lock and key, same as Tony pills.  
   
“A pity,” Warren says, drumming his fingers against the table-top. “I’m not a huge drinker, obviously. But still, I’ve been so busy. And tonight I’m among friends.”  
   
Tony doesn’t know what to say. “Yeah,” he manages. “It’s a shame Nick couldn’t make it.”  
   
“Of course. I know how close you two are. I like to think that you’re both quite similar. And look at you now, Of Ross. So well behaved.”  
   
Tony used to have a line he’d break out for Obie. “Thank you. I’m so grateful I was shown the error of my ways.”  
   
“Of course you are,” Warren says, smugly. “They always are.”  
   
“I think – people might be wondering where you are,” Tony tries. “You shouldn’t delay – “  
   
“Don’t tell me what to do.”  
   
Tony shuts up. Once upon a time, he was so strong, he’d tell Warren to shut the fuck up. But if he does, it’ll get bad for him again. Tony doesn’t want that. All Tony wants is Ross to love him and a nice baby. Warren is bad. Warren is – Warren is looking at him like --  
   
“I won’t be seeing you,” Warren says casually, leaning himself against the island. His palms slide over the wood. He owns the space. “Not for a few weeks, until my gala. Then of course, election night. And unfortunately, you’ll have to be at the inauguration or people will ask questions, but you’re so nice and… docile, now.”  
   
“Do you want some pie?” Tony mumbles. He wonders if it’s raining in the Maldives. He would love to go to the Maldives. They’re going to disappear, if global warming gets it’s way –  
   
Warren is in his space, too-close too-close. Pressed against Tony’s back, one finger teasing his cheek. “When I’m President,” he murmurs, breath like acid in his ear, “you won’t be able to stop me. Ross won’t be able to stop me, he’ll let me. They always do.”  
   
“I just want to serve the pie, please.”  
   
Warren presses. Tony braces his hands on the counter. He bows his head. He counts seconds, while Warren peels back the neck of his shirt, rubs a hand over his nape.  
   
“He’s got you all drugged up,” Warren says, and Tony can hear his smile. “You’d probably just lie there, and thank me afterwards.”  
   
Drowsy. Not thinking.  
   
“Why don’t you give me something, hmm?” Warren shifts, brings his hands up to wrap around Tony’s belly, his shoulders. “Something quick, and then – “  
   
“Christopher,” Mary of Warren says sourly from the door. “Alpha. Leave him be.”  
   
Warren’s hands slide from Tony like a snake from around a branch. “Just looking at this pie, darling. I think we should have something like this at the gala, don’t you think?”  
   
Of Warren doesn’t reply. “The guests are wondering where you are. We need to take photos. I’m sure _Of_ _Ross,”_ she stresses, “doesn’t need to worry about pie on top of everything else.”  
   
Tony doesn’t turn. He just looks at the counter.  
   
“No, of course. He’s a busy boy. I’ll see you, Of Ross.”  
   
Footsteps retreating. Tony doesn’t move. He doesn’t own his space.  
   
“Did he touch you?” Of Warren asks from the doorway.  
   
“No,” Tony says distantly, numbly. “A bit,” he adds, correcting himself.  
   
“If he does that again, come to me. I’ll make him stop.”  
   
“Thanks.”  
   
Of Warren makes an irritated noise. “And you really shouldn’t tempt him like that,” she says. “Next time, don’t just stand there like a lemon, flaunting yourself.”  
   
   
“Where’s the pie?” Ross is asking, irritated.  
   
The pie, the pie, Tony forgot the pie. He forgot the pie. He doesn’t know what to say; he feels like there are ants on his skin. He’s going to go upstairs and jump out the window. He used to be so clever, and now he can’t even remember – he can’t even –  
   
Tony fists his fingers in Ross’s shirt. He can’t look at him. He’s shaking. He wants to fall apart. He wants to scour his skin with a wire brush, bathe in boiling water, in bleach. He tries to explain. He _tries_ to make Ross understand. _Not now,_ he thinks, _please, believe me this time --_  
   
Ross’s hand is on his shoulder, almost gentle. He narrows his eyes, sniffs once, surreptitious. He looks at Tony, then scans the room; his eyes land on Warren, fix there, staring, mouth slightly open and frowning like he’s trying to see past a glare.  
   
His hand tightens, the relaxes. “Forget the pie,” he says, voice strange. “You don’t need to be here, sweetheart. Go upstairs and lock your door. Tell John to stand outside.”  
   
A reprieve. Tony will lock his door. For once, he’ll be the one with the power to keep someone out, rather than be forced inside.  
   
   
After.  
   
Tony sits on the side of his bed, Ross at the window, hands in his pockets. Early hours. The guests are gone.  
   
His alpha is kneading the bridge of his nose, shoulders slightly slumped. Tony’s ears are ringing. He needs to take a pill.  
   
“Did he touch you?” Ross asks, eventually.  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
A thump. Ross has slammed his fist against the chest of drawers. “And you let him?” He says incredulously.  
   
“Sorry. Next time I won’t.”  
   
“No, I’m not – angry,” Ross sighs. “Not at you. And there won’t be a next time.” He turns, and checks his watch. “We haven’t got much time. Pack a bag.”  
   
Tony looks up. “What?”  
   
“Pack a bag. A box. I don’t know, just take whatever you need.”  
   
Tony brain tries to work. “Need for what?”  
   
“To go.”  
   
“Go?”  
   
“Jesus, those pills do a number on you.” Ross sounds sad. “The car’s outside. You don’t need much, they said they have everything already.”  
   
Tony probably doesn’t need designer underwear where he’s going.  
   
(It can’t be worse than this.)  
   
He could… protest. Say something clever. He used to be clever, used to be…  
   
“Can I bring pictures?” He asks, slowly.  
   
“I don’t care. Take whatever. And hurry up.”  
   
He packs the photo of his parents into the box.  
   
“And?” Ross says, harried. “Anything else? Overnight clothes, a toothbrush? Don’t just _sit_ there, Tony!” Ross ends up making a disgusted noise, piling in a few t-shirts and toiletries. He seems nervous, almost. Tony doesn’t know why. “Do I have to do everything myself?!”  
   
In the year Tony’s been married, he’s never seen Ross do any housework, ever.  
   
“Go, get up. Come on, get up. I’ll take the box, just – get down the stairs.”  
   
Tony is wearing sweat bottoms and a dressing gown. He doesn’t have any socks. He puts on his boots, and looks like an idiot.  
   
“There are rules,” Ross is saying, “conditions. You’ve left me no choice here, Tony. It’s one thing having you moping about like a bad smell, but I won’t – Warren. I will not abide that.”  
   
Tony nods.  
   
“This is temporary. Just until I figure out what to do with you, I – “ Ross purses his lips, looks away. “Maybe you need some time. And I’ve been – stupid, not letting you see your friends. Went about this the wrong way, should have let you see them from the start, kept them off my fucking tail – “  
   
“My friends?” Tony asks. “What friends?”  
   
“Your friends,” Ross snaps irritably. “This isn’t my choice, Tony, but God, what do I do? I send you away and you’ll come back a vegetable, at least – fucking hell. Get in the car.”  
   
Ross drives so fast that if Tony was in his right mind, he might be scared they’d crash. Instead, he feels himself drifting off. He doesn’t feel nervous. He feels like a kid in the back seat, being taken on a school trip. If anything, he feels secure. _I’m leaving,_ he thinks. _Maybe, I’m never going back._  
   
Ross pulls up on gravel. There’s a pair of solitary headlights, two figures lit into shadow. Ross opens the door for him, grabs his box. “Get out,” he says, brusquely.  
   
Air.  
   
_Air._  
  
Real _air._  
   
Tony almost drops to his knees. Gravel. Air. Cold, and biting, and _brisk._ Tony is almost gasping, head tipped back. _Wait,_ he wants to say, _hold on, just let me –_  
   
Ross is frog-marching him across a driveway. “Stop it,” someone snaps, “stop that, he’s not a ragdoll, you’re hurting him --  
   
Feet crunching over gravel, the smell of home.  
   
The glare of headlights. Hands that loosely guide him, afraid to touch, afraid to hurt. “Where am I?” Tony asks.  
   
“Somewhere safe,” Bucky promises. “It’s over now, Tony. Relax. You’re safe now.”  
   
“Oh shut up,” Ross says, irritably. “No need for dramatics. We have a deal? Per the terms of our agreement?”  
   
Ah. Tony gets it, now. He’s a parcel, signed, sealed, delivered. All part of a bargain. “What agreement?” He asks, but his voice is drowned out. It always is, these days. People don’t remember that he even has things to say.  
   
Natasha is taking his arm now, leading him away. “What agreement?” He asks. “Can I stay here? Is this it now, do I not – I don’t understand.”  
   
Ross waves once, morosely, one hand in his pocket, illuminated by the lights of the car.  
   
“How about we leave them to discuss that,” Natasha says, using the same voice she uses with children. “It’s chilly. You need to get to bed.”  
   
“Can I sleep on the couch? Can I sleep with you?”  
   
“Sure, Tony. You can sleep with me.” Her voice is warm, like hot syrup. Tony would never ask, not normally. He’s not – _into_ that, the comfort things, but he feels so… so…  
   
Spun glass, about to shatter. He’s really, really scared he might shatter if he trips. “It’s not you,” Natasha tells him quietly, sitting him down, “it’s the medication. I know, Tony, I’ve been there, done that. It’s awful. In a few days, it’ll pass, and you’ll be fine.”  
   
Tony wants it to be gone and wants it to stay. He doesn’t know if he can face what’s real without the pill to smooth the way. “I don’t understand,” he says urgently, “explain to me. Why is he letting me – “  
   
Natasha is sliding her hand over the cropped hair on his head, tips his chin slightly. “Tony,” she says, grounding, calming. “It doesn’t matter, alright? We can talk about it when you’ve got the junk out of your system.”  
   
The junk out of his system. Natasha’s hand is on the back of his neck. _Hey,_ Tony thinks drowsily, _she didn’t ask permission._ But it’s different between omegas. It’s better. When Tony curls against Natasha’s throat, there’s no threat there. It’s just warm, and smells like home.  
   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay
> 
> Now, I promise, it gets better.
> 
> Over the hump! Essentially a chapter of snuggles coming up. Also Steve, who I haven't forgotten about, and who is basically just chilling in a cell. 
> 
> I just really wanted to get this chapter out so I could move on with the story, so it's a bit of a mess. It's a bridge so I can get on with the SNUGGLES. 
> 
> So yeah. Opinions are loved! I heard all of your recommendations and have taken them into account. This will definitely have a happy ending!!


	16. Chapter 16

Tony finds him at night.  
   
Bucky has tried to stop him. He’ll sleep on the couch, or lock the door. He’s asked Natasha to have a polite word, but Natasha is either unwilling or Tony non-receptive. He doesn’t like locked doors, Bucky knows, so he feels bad when he turns the key. But he’ll hear the rattling in the night, and then the door sliding out. _He’s picked the lock,_ Bucky will think incredulously. But then, in Tony’s position, he would probably do the same.  
   
He’ll wake up with Tony curled at the foot of his bed. Sometimes in the night, he’ll creep closer. “It’s a protection thing,” Natasha tells him, irritated she needs to explain. “It’s a compliment. Do you not _like_ having him in your bed? Because I can tell him.” Natasha had casually shrugged a shoulder. “He’ll probably be privately devastated and equally mortified, but if it’s really that bad…”  
   
“No! No, it’s not – it’s not _me._ I just think maybe – you know, for him. He’s – it’s so – “ Bucky searches for a word, “ _intimate._ And Steve – “  
   
“Steve isn’t here.”  
   
“But if he was – “  
   
“He would want to know Tony felt safe, and that his best friend could fall into that position, the same way it’s been done in packs for thousands of years. I know Steve. Steve would be furious if you kicked Tony out, Bucky.”  
   
Would he? Bucky tries to think back – Steve has never struck him as an aggressive-possessive. Protective, sure, but no more than most. He’s a leader, it’s in his nature, maybe he wouldn’t mind so much if Tony got comfort in his bed. It’s true, it’s been done since the dawn of time, and it’s not like Bucky’s one to deny his baser instincts.  
   
But Tony isn’t the same. He used to have a smile, sharp, sometimes cruel, always teasing. He quick-witted and snappy and could run rings round you till you were dizzy. He doesn’t talk so much, now. It could be the withdrawal. There was a weird few days where, after vomiting in the toilet, Tony would scream, throw things at the wall, kick and shove and push until he was too worn out to do anything at all. And then he would cry, before bursting into hysterical laughter.  
   
But that seems to have passed. When he’s not sleeping, he likes to sit in the garden with a blanket on his lap and flick through a tablet. Stupidly, they have to be careful. There could be people watching them. If anyone catches wind that Tony is working without a license, there can be trouble.  
   
Today, he’s resting his chin on his hand, apparently deep in thought. Natasha is cooking. Bucky is standing guard. “I should help,” he says, breaking Bucky from his reverie.  
   
“What?”  
   
“I should help,” he says again, in the slightly slow manner he has now. “With the cooking. It’s rude of me to…” he trails off, blinking drowsily at the sun.  
   
“Think of it as a vacation,” Bucky says. “No work for you.”  
   
“It’s rude,” Tony insists, but it’s lackluster.  
   
Now’s as good a time as any, Bucky thinks. “Tony,” he begins, delicately, “I was wondering – if it’s more comfortable for you, do you – do you want my bed?”  
   
Tony eyes him cautiously, but doesn’t look at him head-on. “Why?” He asks, fiddling with the blanket over his knees.  
   
“I just thought – because you’re there,” he manages, weakly. “Because you join me, sometimes.” _Every time. Every night._  
   
A few minutes go by. Bucky thinks maybe Tony will ignore him. But then he speaks, suddenly. “I don’t have to,” he says. “If you don’t want me there, I understand. I haven’t been myself, I – maybe it’s better I get used to it. Before I go back.”  
   
‘Back’. Back to Ross, back to the house. “Whatever you need,” Bucky promises.  
   
   
Tony doesn’t join him that night.  
   
Bucky feels – relief? Regret? Disappointment?  
   
It’s probably for the better.  
   
   
He didn’t think Tony was this submissive.  
   
Some omegas are, Bucky knows that. Some aren’t. Each is fine. Tony always came across as – as more of a dominant. He likes to tease. He likes to take charge.  
   
Sleeping at the foot of your bed isn’t a _dominant_ thing to do. Even among the more docile, it’s considered extreme. Bucky senses Tony may be embarrassed, that he resents Bucky ever bringing it up, because he keeps him at an arms length. When Bucky enters a room, he’ll leave. If Bucky sits next to him at dinner, he’ll be silent, push his food around his plate until Natasha decides he’s eaten enough.  
   
He asks Tony is he wants to go for a walk. He thinks Tony loves being outside, the Fall air is cool, crisp. Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Do you want me to come?” He asks.  
   
“I’d like you to come if you’d like to go.”  
   
Tony keeps his eyes cast down. _Look me in the eyes,_ Bucky wants to say, _I won’t bite._ He thinks he could say it, and make it sound like a joke. He thinks he can pull that off. So, light-heartedly, he says: “Look at me. I’m not going to snap your head off.”  
   
Tony jerks up his head, looks him in the eyes, but he’s not really _there._ His posture has shifted, subtly, reflexively, in a way Bucky would only really notice if he was looking for it. Hips tipped forward, shoulders back, hands loose, chin curling towards his shoulder, head down, eyes up. It’s submissive. It’s says, _don’t hurt me. I’m not a threat._  
   
“I know,” Tony says quietly. “Sorry. I’ll look you in the eyes. It’s rude not to.”  
   
“It’s not,” Bucky says quickly. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I just meant – “  
   
Tony’s eyes have slid to the side. He’s now carefully examining a spot behind Bucky’s head.  
   
“ – That I won’t hurt you,” he finishes, lamely.  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything. He gives an awkward nod. Bucky gets the awful feeling that he’s waiting for permission to leave.  
   
“You don’t have to come,” he says, defeated. “If you’re busy.”  
   
He says ‘busy’ instead of ‘don’t want to’ because Tony thinks ‘I don’t want to do that’ is rude, and therefore he would never say it. Busy is better. Busy is an excuse, even though they both know Tony will spend the evening curled on the couch.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, and his eyes have slid back to Bucky’s shoes. “I’m busy,” he mumbles. “Have to... do that thing.”  
   
“Right,” Bucky says miserably. “You -- “ he hates what he says next, “you can go, if you like.”  
   
Tony relaxes, again, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll see you,” he says gratefully, already turning away, “enjoy your walk.”  
   
Bucky says ‘thanks’, but Tony’s already gone, and now he faces the cold and dark of the night by himself.  
   
   
Still, undeterred, Bucky takes it upon himself to try and find the root of the problem.  
   
“Has he said anything to you?” He asks Natasha. “About – about my bed?”  
   
Natasha shoots him an irritated look. “You shouldn’t have ever mentioned it to him,” she says. “You’ve humiliated him.”  
   
“That seems harsh.”  
   
“Not to him. Tony isn’t – you know what he’s like. I know he’s had it rough, but he’s not actually – this weepy, normally.”  
   
“I know that,” Bucky says defensively. “That’s the only reason I’m asking, it seems so out of character – “  
   
“Well he’s had a rough year, Bucky, do you think that’s got something to do with it?”  
   
“Obviously.” Bucky watches him, sitting out on the deck. He has his hands folded on his belly, face tipped to the sun, and he looks asleep. “I just meant it’s a strange way for him to be seeking comfort. And I wanted to know – “  
   
“You know what I think?” Natasha says tersely, dumping a dollop of cream into her coffee with mild ferocity, “I think you should stop mentioning it, and stop trying to psycho-analyze it. He spent two months locked in a room, Buck, you do the math. Maybe he just likes the fucking company.”  
   
“But my company,” Bucky stresses, “and not yours. Why?”  
   
“Because you have a knot, and I don’t. Make yourself useful, give this to him and ask him what he wants to eat. We have enough on our plate without you causing a shit-stir, Barnes.”  
   
   
At night, Bucky thinks he hears Tony roaming the hallway, like a ghost. He hears the footsteps stop outside his door; the quiet slide of wood on carpet, the light depression of Tony’s feet. He can hear his breath, desperately trying to keep itself quiet, but tinged with a slight wheeze, like breathlessness, or panic.  
   
 _You can come in,_ Bucky wants to say. _I don’t mind._  
   
But silently, Tony slinks away. He continues his roaming. In the morning, Natasha finds him still awake, sitting on the front porch.  
   
   
“So he’s not sleeping,” Natasha says, like it’s Bucky’s fault.  
   
“I’m aware.”  
   
“Are you? That’s so good. What are you going to do to fix it?”  
   
“He won’t talk to me. He won’t even look at me.”  
   
“You embarrassed him,” Natasha says, and she keeps saying that, even though Bucky doesn’t understand what it _means._  
   
“Embarrassed him? How? Natasha, I asked him if he would be more comfy in my room – “  
   
“He didn’t want your room for the view, James, he wanted it for you. He – “ Natasha makes a frustrated noise. “Look, he’s my priority, okay? So I’m sorry if I come off a little heavy. Tony isn’t – he’s soft by nature. He’s possessive, and he’s a bit of a control freak. He’s adaptable, but he’s proud, and – “  
   
“It sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into him.”  
   
Natasha looks angry. “And? So should you. You should know better. You brought up the fact that he’s was sleeping in your bed, he sees that as a weakness. He thinks it’s pathetic. He thinks maybe you don’t want him, sure. But more than that, you made him fucking _confront_ the fact that he wants comfort. Specifically, comfort from an alpha. And, even worse, comfort from _you.”_  
   
“What’s so bad about me?”  
   
“You’re not Steve,” Natasha says flatly. “Tony thinks he’s strictly monogamous. He despises pack relations. You’re not Steve, and so it scares him. If he had it his way, he would continue sleeping in your bed so long as you just didn’t mention it, didn’t make him think about it, and let him do what he needed to do. But you made him think it about. And now he feels guilty, and embarrassed, and he can’t bear to look at you because that makes him feel it all over again. Like I said, James, he’s had _a rough fucking year.”_  
  
“I – “ Bucky frowns. He lowers his voice, looks around, furtive, as if Tony will spring from inside a cabinet. “What do you mean, I’m not Steve. Why does that scare him?”  
   
Natasha narrows her eyes, scents something mildly confused. “Do you honestly not understand?” She says.  
   
“No! I don’t! Natasha – “  
   
“You’re not _Steve,_ but Tony wants to share your bed. Tony is monogamous. His relationship with Steve is monogamous. Tony _hates_ pack relations. Are you understanding?”  
   
“I don’t understand why him hating packs has anything to do with – “  
   
“He’s sleeping with you,” Natasha says flatly. “He thinks he’s cheating on Steve. He’s embarrassed because he’s not usually this submissive. Can I spell it out any more, or do you need it in writing?”  
   
Bucky pauses. “No, that’s not necessary.”  
   
“Good,” she says shortly. “Sort it out.”  
   
   
Tony doesn’t even bother pretending he’s going to bed. At midnight, when Natasha pointedly yawns and tells them she’s bushed, Tony shuffles his way to the porch. It’s cold outside. He brings a blanket, and his tablet, and settles himself on the bench.  
   
Bucky steels himself to confront him. It should be easy. _Hey Tony, it’s cold out. It’ll be warmer in my room._ Or, _Tony, I’m just heading to bed. Want to come?_ Natasha tells him to phrase it as a question, not to sound too imposing, or like it’s a command. Don’t give him the wrong idea, she says. Don’t make him think you want to fuck him.  
   
He swings open the netted door and sighs. His breath fogs; it really is cold at night. “Hey, Tony,” he manages. Tony doesn’t say anything.  
   
He’s got his legs drawn up to his chest, chin resting on his knees. Casually, without threat, Bucky slides closer. “It’s cold,” he says, “wouldn’t you be warmer inside?”  
   
“I like it.”  
   
Fuck, what does Bucky say to that? “Really?” He tries, lightly. “You might catch a cold.”  
   
“That’s not how that works,” Tony mumbles. “You don’t catch a cold from being cold. It spreads through bacteria. Being cold can lower your immune system, though. At least that’s what some studies show.”  
   
“Oh.” Bucky feels stupid. He always feels stupid around Tony. “Well – you’ll lower your immune system if you stay out here too long.”  
   
That does tease a small smile from Tony’s lips. “Worth it,” he says.  
   
“Worth it to what?”  
   
“Be out here. Outside.”  
   
Figures. “Could I join you?”  
   
Tony shrugs. “Sure. Did Natasha ask you to?”  
   
Bucky is surprised. He didn’t know Tony felt that way. “No. Actually, I get the feeling she’d like it if I stopped sticking my foot in it. She’s not my biggest fan at the moment.”  
   
“She’s real good to me,” Tony says quietly. “Even though – I haven’t always been good to her.”  
   
“Does it matter now?”  
   
“Guess not.”  
   
Bucky sighs again, perches on the edge of the bench, as far from Tony as he can be. “You know,” he says, conversationally, “it feels like you have something on your mind.”  
   
Tony shakes his head, stares at out the forest. “No.”  
   
“No? Nothing at all?”  
   
“I try not to think about anything anymore.”  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
One-shouldered shrug. “Not worth thinking. About things. This doesn’t end well for me.”  
   
“Tony,” Bucky says quietly, “you know we’ll never let – “  
   
“He’ll take me back. He’s cleverer than I gave him credit for. Stupid me.”  
   
“All we need is time. We’ll figure out some way – “  
   
“Stop it,” Tony mutters, “I told you, I don’t want to think. Stop talking about him.”  
   
“Okay,” Bucky says slowly. “We don’t have to.”  
   
Silence. Then: “I’m not crazy,” Tony says.  
   
“I don’t think you are.”  
   
“I know I was – I was rough at the start. But those pills did a number on me.”  
   
“I know they did.”  
   
“When – “ Tony’s scent goes clammy, sad, desperately sad. Bucky inhales, turns to comfort him, just from the smell alone, and has to hold himself back, re-orientate himself. “When I lost my third kid. I went weird then. Saw things that weren’t there. Talked to – things. That was bad. I was a little crazy then. But it was birthing blues, everyone said so, and obviously – well, not obviously. You don’t know what it’s like. Alphas never do.”  
   
“I have a little experience with losing my mind, Tones.”  
   
 _Tones._ The name rolls naturally off his tongue, he didn’t have to think twice about saying it. Tony hasn’t even noticed. Still, _Tones._ Steve calls him Tones. Only Steve.  
   
Tony buries his head in his knees. “Fuck,” he breathes, “I know you do. Fuck, fuck – look at me complaining, when you’ve had – what’s Ross compared to Pierce, what’s Warren compared to fucking _HYDRA._ I’m sorry. I try not to be self-absorbed. Self-pitying, I’m so fucking self-pitying – “  
   
“I mean I can understand,” Bucky says gently. “Not anything else.”  
   
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t deserve to complain.”  
   
“Why not?”  
   
“Because – I brought this on myself. And I know what you’re thinking. I know what you’re all thinking, _why didn’t he just leave?_ But I couldn’t, not when I needed my license, and then not when I had Steve, and then not when Ross had him locked up. And even then – even if  I could just forget about him, go out on my own, forget about responsibility and duty and the people I love… I was just _scared._ Of Ross. I – “ Tony shakes his head, like he can’t believe it himself. “Scared of Ross. Of what he could do to me if I tried.”  
   
“Why is being scared of Ross any worse than being scared of anyone?”  
   
“Because,” Tony snarls, “he’s an idiot. He’s weak, and petty, and stupid. I shouldn’t have let him get to me. I was doing so well, and then – “  
   
“He’s not as stupid as you think.”  
   
“Yes, I realise that, thank you Barnes,” Tony snaps. He stares back out across the garden. “It’s hard to settle when I know – I’ll have to go back, is all.”  
   
“Maybe you won’t have to go back.”  
   
Tony shakes his head. “You can’t promise that. Don’t.” He cross his arms and hunches against the cold. Bucky desperately wants to take him in his arms, if only to warm him up. “When does Steve get out?” He asks.  
   
Bucky freezes. “What do you mean?”  
   
Tony shoots him a confused look. “Out of prison. Out of the Raft. Ross said they could only hold him a certain number of weeks without charge, when does he get out? When can I see him?”  
   
“I – I don’t know, exactly. Ross isn’t exactly forthcoming.” _Lie. You’re lying to him._  
   
Tony scents crestfallen. “I miss him,” he mumbles, “the big – oaf.”  
   
“I’m sure he misses you.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Yeah, I didn’t doubt it Barnes, but thanks.”  
   
“Sorry. I just meant – oh.” Tony’s giving him an uneasy smile. _He was joking,_ Bucky thinks, _or trying to._  
   
He’s not the same. Tony used to run rings round Bucky. He used to feel so unattainable, teasing and twisting and laughing. Now, he’s been blunted. His wings have been clipped. No matter how safe they make it, he’s dulled.  
   
   
That night, he’s woken by rustling. The careful padding of bare feet on carpet, the light depression on the bed when Tony takes his place at the bottom. Bucky says nothing, doesn’t move, gives no indication he’s heard. Soon, Tony’s breathing evens out. When Bucky wakes up in the morning, he’s already gone, sheets cold. As if Bucky wouldn’t know. As if Tony’s scent, sad, muted, doesn’t linger wherever he goes.  
   
   
Tony will need to go back for his heat. They tell him this, lips tight, hands folded, a united front, like they’re the parents and Tony an errant schoolboy.  
   
“But we won’t make you,” Natasha says, carefully. “I promise, Tony. If you don’t want to…”  
   
There’s a caveat, of course, because there always is. Steve was due to be released two weeks ago. And he wasn’t.  
   
Because so long as Steve remains in the Raft, where Ross wants him, Tony can stay at this house. That’s their deal. Tony gets to recover. Steve will be kept quiet. He won’t make any noise about the election, he won’t front the Initiative, he’ll stay out of Ross’s hair. The Avengers will be rudderless, leaderless, and Ross gets what he wants.  
   
And Tony will take his heats with Ross, on neutral ground, like prize bitch to breed pedigrees.  
   
Tony doesn’t know, because Natasha thinks it’s not a good time to tell him. Bucky thinks Tony is tired of having people lie to him. It’s a point of contention between the two of them. Natasha thinks that if Tony knows what Steve has done for him, he’ll feel guilty, want to take it back, and then they’ll be right back where they started. This is true. Still, Tony should be allowed to decide for himself.  
   
“If I don’t go, he’ll just take me back,” Tony says dully. “He’ll – he still has Steve, and Steve was supposed to be released weeks ago. He’s not afraid to break rules, I…”  
   
He goes silent, like he does these days, and stares at a point in space. _He’s in no shape,_ Bucky thinks, _he’s in not fit mind to be – pandering to an old man._ It’s cruel to send him back, tremendously cruel.  
   
Natasha’s hand rests in the middle of the table, cups Tony’s tightly-curled fists. “We won’t make you,” she says, she swears. “No one will make you.”  
   
Tony doesn’t say anything else. Sometimes, it’s like he’s in his own little world.  
   
   
“We should stop him,” Natasha murmurs, later. “Damn it, we should not let him go.”  
   
“I agree,” Bucky says, which will be a first. They don’t see eye to eye these days.  
   
“How do we stop Ross? Waylay him, distract him… is there anything we could offer him in return?”  
   
“Me,” Bucky says, seriously. “Probably. He would take me.”  
   
Natasha frowns, but she doesn’t disagree. “We can’t just bargain ourselves away. Not when we’re so thin on the ground.”  
   
“He’d take me, though. Probably for as a long as it took. If I said I’d go under, I bet you could keep him indefinitely.”  
   
Natasha is shaking her head. “I can’t let you and Steve disappear forever. You realise, that’s what Ross wants? This is probably what he wants, fuck, he’s probably _banking_ on your getting attached and signing your life away – “  
   
“You should ask him,” Bucky says lowly, “omega to omega. It’s better from you, I don’t even need to – “  
   
Natasha is slapping him on the arm, once, twice. Bucky freezes. He turns. Tony is standing in the hallway like a shadow, silent. He’s so quiet – was he always this quiet? Able to walk on air?  
   
He takes a deep breath, like he’s about to launch into a monologue, and then he exhales. “No one is asking Ross for anything,” he says shortly. “I’ll go. Stop talking about it. I don’t want to think about it.”  
   
And then he slides off to some dark recess of the house to sit and cry, or to sit and stare at the wall, or to sit and tuck his head against his knees, or whatever else he does now to pass the time.  
   
   
Tony nests before his heat. He never used to, Natasha says, used to think it was beneath him, but it’s a comfort thing. Everything is a comfort thing, apparently, and Bucky shouldn’t question it, lest he risks a sharp look from Natasha and some rolled eyes.  
   
He had made himself scarce for a few days, or at least, more scarce than usual. He wouldn’t sit out on the porch, instead choosing to scurry blankets and pillows into the walk-in wardrobe attached to the room he’s supposed to sleep in.  
   
Bucky knocks on his door. “Can I come in?”  
   
A beat. Shuffling. “Yeah,” Tony says eventually. His voice is so small behind the wood.  
   
He opens the closet. So _that’s_ where the couch cushions went.  
   
“I can give them back,” Tony says, reluctantly. “Sorry. It’s easier to…”  
   
 _Sleep._ Bucky doesn’t finish his sentence for him. “I thought you didn’t like locked doors?”  
   
“Bedrooms. I don’t like locked bedrooms.” Almost imperceptible, but Tony swallows, hard. “And besides, this doesn’t really count. I put myself here, so…”  
   
“You chose to be here?” Bucky asks, softly.  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“So, when Natasha and I – when we tell you to sleep in your room… you know you don’t have to, right? We won’t force you.”  
   
“Yeah I know.”  
   
Okay, then. It doesn’t seem like Tony wants to talk about it anymore.  
   
“Can I..?” Bucky gestures sitting; Tony stiffens. “It’s alright,” he says hastily, “I don’t have to. It’s fine.”  
   
“You can. Over there.” Tony points with his foot to the furthest edge of the closet. Bucky doesn’t take it personally.  
   
“It’s cozy.”  
   
“Yeah. I know.”  
   
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Bucky tries to joke. Tony’s scent goes sticky, awkward; embarrassed? _Oh. He thinks I’m teasing._ “I don’t mean – just that – I do, love what you’ve done. As long as it makes you feel secure – “  
   
Tony’s eyes are strained on somewhere past Bucky’s head. He’s holding himself stiffly, jaw tense, shoulders tight. _I’ve put him on edge, and he’s trying to be polite._ He shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have inserted himself here, in Tony’s one refuge.  
   
“I can go,” Bucky says. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have – I’m sorry.”  
   
Tony’s brow furrows. “I keep thinking I deserve it.”  
   
Maybe Bucky frowns too much, maybe he smells too confused, because Tony looks a little irritated. “What? Deserve what?”  
   
“I always thought I was better,” Tony says, shortly. “Better than the other omegas.”  
   
“How so?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “They were stupid, I was clever. They liked – to shop, and I liked to mess about with cars. They were always mean at school. I always told myself – I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t even omega, really, except for the fact I have heats and… the thing, on the back of my neck.”  
   
“Oh.” Bucky feels out of his depth. Really out of his depth.  
   
Tony tucks his knees to his chest. “I probably deserve it,” he repeats, muffled. “They’re probably all laughing at me, now.”  
   
“No one’s laughing at you.”  
   
“Ross is. Warren is. Warren laughed at me,” Tony remembers, “they all thought it was real funny that I couldn’t – think properly, anymore. Big clever Tony from Stark, can’t even – count to ten anymore,” he spits, bitterly.  
   
“You were drugged, doesn’t count.”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder, limply. “Yeah. Maybe.”  
   
“I think you worry too much about what other people think of you.”  
   
The look Tony gives him is pure poison. “Of course,” he snarls, “how could expect you to understand?”  
   
Bucky is taken aback. “I didn’t mean – “  
   
“Of course I care what people think about me, I get judged on _everything._ Not like you,” he says, bitter. “You used to kill people and now everyone’s forgotten.”  
   
“It’s wasn’t really that easy,” Bucky says, carefully. That rankles, a bit. Bucky hasn’t had an easy ride.  
   
“They all think I deserve it. For my crime, which is… building things, maybe. Or being smarter than them. Ross – you know what Ross did, when I fucked him for the first time? He made me say, _‘you win’._ Over and over. Obsessed by it, which is – pathetic, and he’s pathetic, but still. I don’t know what I ever did to make people _hate me_ so fucking much.”  
   
“Is that what you’ve been thinking about?” Bucky asks gently. “All this time, alone up here?”  
   
“No,” Tony says defensively. “Just that – maybe I shouldn’t have… judged. I don’t know. Judged people, before. It’s not easy, none of this is easy, I – there’s this kid. You know Nick?”  
   
“Of Warren.” Bucky remembers him, from months ago. The young pregnant omega, who was so scared of giving birth.  
   
“Yeah. I was hard on him. I – kinda brusque. I can be brusque.”  
   
“I know.”  
   
“Thanks. I – guess, even after everything that happened with Obie, I kind of wondered why he couldn’t just brush it off. Like, why he lost his mind. And then it happened to me.”  
   
“You didn’t deserve it, Tony.”  
   
“Maybe I did. All of it. For thinking I was better, for wanting to be better. They made me see I’m not. I’m just another omega who – who builds nests before their heat,” Tony’s nose wrinkles, “and – and keeps their head down, and doesn’t rock the fucking boat. Maybe I’m just like that. The rest was bravado.”  
   
“Maybe you’re just scared,” Bucky says quietly. “Maybe you need to find your feet.”  
   
“No,” Tony mutters, “I’m just pathetic, James. Always have been, probably.”  
   
 _James._  
   
“You’re not pathetic, don’t you dare call yourself that.”  
   
Tony’s eyes dart upwards, concerned; okay, there’s some steel in Bucky’s voice. He’s not sure how it got there.  
   
“Stop calling yourself that,” Bucky continues. “Every omega out there who likes to sleep at the foot of their alphas bed – are they pathetic, Tony?”  
   
“Shut up,” Tony says thickly. “I don’t sleep at – you’re not my – it’s just because – there could be – if someone came in the night, it’s safer for all of us – “  
   
“No, it’s safer for you, and that’s _fine,_ fuck’s sake. You are not _pathetic._ You are the opposite of pathetic, Jesus, I’ve been through hell and I’m telling you, what you’ve suffered? It’s ain’t trivial, Stark.”  
   
“I’m not Stark,” he mutters.  
   
“Well what are you then, Ross? I don’t recognize that,” Bucky says boldly, _feeling_ bold. “You’re a Stark to me. Tony Stark.”  
   
That gets the first half-smile out of him. “Stop it,” he mumbles, quietly pleased, “that’s ridiculous.”  
   
“What, Tony Stark?”  
   
“I’m not – I’m From Stark, c’mon. Don’t mess around.” He’s almost shy, hiding his smile.  
   
“Why not? Tony Stark, From Stark, what’s the difference?”  
   
“I’m not alpha, you’re being – silly.” Tony prods him slightly with his foot, playful.  
   
“I am very silly,” Bucky agrees, although he’s not, really. He used to have a sense of humor. Steve tells him he used to be hilarious.  
   
 _Steve._ The thought of him tanks the mood like a lead balloon. Tony picks up on it. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and his scent is immediately guarded, like he’s done something bad.  
   
“Nothing, no, I was just – “ _guilt. Why do I feel guilty?_  
   
“You’re going?” Tony asks. “Oh. I thought – okay.”  
   
“Sorry. I shouldn’t – impede on all this.” Bucky waves his hands around the little closet. “Like I said: love what you’ve done with place. I’m going, I guess… if you’re planning on sleeping here tonight…”  
   
A long pause. Tony says nothing.  
   
“Well, I keep my door open,” is all Bucky says, with finality. “All night. I don’t lock my door.”  
   
   
Later.  
   
It’s late. Early hours of the morning. Bucky is half-asleep.  
   
Feet padding down the hall. The soft friction of the door being opened against carpet. The scent of Tony, afraid.  
   
“Just for tonight,” Tony croaks. “And tomorrow, I’ll be gone. Like I was never here.”  
   
“Tony, if you want to – “  
   
“Steve would want us to,” he whispers. He gives voice to their fear. “He wouldn’t want us to suffer, wouldn’t want me to – lie awake.”  
   
“He wouldn’t,” Bucky agrees, if only to assuage his own guilt.  
   
“Can’t explain it. Don’t like alphas, but – I don’t mind you.”  
   
Bucky can trot out the literature Natasha’s made him read. “In times of strife,” he begins to explain, “omega often find comfort with the pack’s – “  
   
“I know the science,” Tony huffs, almost annoyed. “I just mean that I’m not – the type. And you’re not…”  
   
Dominant, maybe. Maybe that’s what Tony wants to say, and he stops himself, because he’s programmed to be polite to the people he relies on. “You know,” Bucky says, and he pulls back the covers, rests his arm on the headboard invitingly, non-sexual. “There’s a school of thought that says omegas like you – they like shopping around.”  
   
Tony frowns, tentatively sitting himself on the mattress, as far from Bucky as he can. “What do you mean, omega’s like me?”  
   
“Like, your breed.”  
   
“My breed?” Tony asks, incredulously. “How do you know my breed? I don’t even know my blood-type, and you’re telling me you know my – “  
   
“Natasha makes it her job to know. She says it’s real common. Not encouraged where you’re from, though, not even really with the religious types. Don’t like sharing the O between – “  
   
“I’m not a stuffed toy you can fight over.”  
   
“I mean,” Bucky says, re-phrasing, “that obviously Steve’s your alpha, and you love him, and he loves you. But in a pack set-up – those other alphas have to go somewhere. So they take different roles. Some of them pair off with other omegas, some of them go elsewhere. It’s not uncommon for the prime to have – a special alpha friend, who the omega – “  
   
Tony glare is sharp, uncompromising. “Are you telling me you’re in love with him?” He says, almost a – what is that, a growl? Old wound, re-opened. Bucky should have known better. “You’re his _special friend,”_ he mocks, “the one he flew to Wakanda to save, leaving me – “  
   
“No! Tony, it was just an example. I’m saying, no matter how much you love Steve, finding comfort elsewhere is just part of your – “  
   
“ _Breed,”_ Tony sneers, and he stands, getting agitated. “Of course, because we’re all just pedigrees you can fuck to churn out whatever special personality quirks you like best. That’s why Ross wants me so bad, you know. That’s why _he’s_ so desperate to breed one on me, thinks it’ll make the baby smart. Huh,” Tony laughs, bitter, “that means he has to admit to himself, even a little, that I’m more than a pretty face. But never doubt Ross’s ability to pull off mental gymnastics – “  
   
Bucky is so careful, laying his hand on Tony’s arm. Gentle. Still, he recoils some, but doesn’t pull away. “I’ve upset you,” Bucky says, frankly. “I didn’t mean to. I thought – if I could explain the logistics, you wouldn’t feel so bad. All I’m trying to say is Steve doesn’t mind. I don’t mind. You shouldn’t either. And – for what it’s worth,” Bucky softens, looks down, bares his neck just slightly, “I do care about you. And I want you to feel safe, and to get better, and if sleeping with me is what helps you, then that’s what I’ll do. Because I’m here to help you. Both of you.”  
   
Tony sniffs, slightly. He doesn’t pull back. Bucky chances a look up, but he’s looking elsewhere, exhausted. “I – “ he starts, “okay.”  
   
“Okay?”  
   
“Okay. I won’t feel guilty.”  
   
Victory. Bucky shuffles back into bed, fluffs up a pillow for Tony, pats it. Cautiously, Tony takes his place. “It’s different,” he says, sounding almost nervous. “It’s different, ‘cause normally I’m at your feet – “  
   
“This is fine.”  
   
“I haven’t – slept with. I don’t really. Just Steve and Ross and Obadiah.”  
   
Bucky rests his head on his pillow, says nothing, and Tony follows suit. There’s a berth between them. Tony’s a shuffler, Bucky learns; he tosses and turns, and spends half an hour trying to find a comfortable spot. And then he stops, and Bucky suspects maybe he was finding a reason to roll closer. Tucked against Bucky’s shoulder, nuzzling, and then wrapping his arms round Bucky’s waist like he’s the only raft in a wide open sea.  
   
   
Bucky can hear sobbing through the wall.  
   
“You don’t have to,” Natasha is saying, urgent, voice slightly muffled. Bucky’s ears pick it up, though. They always pick it up, even when he doesn’t want to hear. “We’ll tell him you’re sick. You _are_ sick, look at you, you look like you’d fall over in wind – “  
   
“He won’t,” Tony is croaking, gasping, and then retching. Natasha shushes him. Bucky imagines her stroking his head, dabbing the sick from his mouth while he huddles over the basin. “Won’t fall for that.”  
   
“You’re terrified,” Natasha says gently, and then something low enough Bucky can’t quite catch. There’s a long silence. Then Tony starts to sob once more.  
   
Bucky pretends he doesn’t hear.  
   
   
Tony buries himself in Bucky that night. He grips him so hard it leaves bruises. He doesn’t sleep. It’s worse than pain, worse than pure dread; Tony is terrified, and there’s nothing Bucky can do.  
   
He doesn’t want to say, _it’s just one week,_ because that belittles him. He wishes he _could_ take Tony away, because he would, right now.  
   
“If I left,” Tony says quietly. “If I went away by myself and never came back. Would you stop me?”  
   
Stop him? No. Never. Bucky would never do that, no matter how much it hurt him.  
   
“Even if it meant Warren stripped the Accords and turned you into serfs. And locked Steve away and never let him out again. Would you let me then?”  
   
“I wouldn’t stop you,” Bucky promises.  
   
“But would you help me?”  
   
A pause. Bucky blinks at him in the gloom. “What are you asking?”  
   
“Would you…” Tony’s fingers are scratching lightly at Bucky’s chest. “Would you… come with me?”  
   
Another pause. Bucky tries to understand. “Without – without Steve?” He asks, confused.  
   
Tony shutters off. His scent goes something sticky, and he rolls onto his side, away from Bucky. “Forget it,” he mutters.  
   
“Tony,” Bucky tries to say, sitting up. “Tony, hold on, I didn’t mean – “  
   
“I said forget it.”  
   
“Wait. I wasn’t trying to – “  
   
“Barnes, I have a hellish week in front of me, could you just – shut the fuck up? Please?”  
   
He gets the message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was getting balls to the walls long so this is part one. part 2 is almost finished and coming soon.
> 
> thoughts! love them! especially how u think it's going w bucky and tony.......


	17. Chapter 17

Tony leaves early the next morning. A black sedan pulls up, Ross’s steward gets out. He keeps his distance.  
   
And he’s gone for five days. He’s dropped off in the same car. Ross returns him, un-showered, stinking of his fluids, some of his spend still crusted on Tony’s neck. A power play. Natasha doesn’t let him close. She gives him jobs, like to go and get groceries, even though he shopped this morning. Again, he gets the message. It’s Private. It’s Omegas Only. Bucky is not allowed.  
   
Wordlessly, sometime after, Tony silently enters the living room. Bucky is working. He’s showered, but he still stinks of Him. And of heat. It’s distracting, but Bucky senses that Tony doesn’t want him to mention it.  
   
Casually, he grabs a pillow and throws it on the floor. Bucky adjusts slightly, thinking Tony will want to sit next to him. Instead, he gracelessly slumps to his knees, rests his cheek on the couch next to Bucky’s thigh, reaches up to grab his hand and pulls it to his neck. “Stroke me,” he mumbles, an order, a command.  
   
Bucky does. Tony’s sigh is immediate, his body relaxing, pushing itself into the floor. Lightly, so lightly, Bucky scratches his nails across Tony’s nape, and he shivers, rubs his cheek against the couch.  
   
“Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes shut, lips barely moving. “Thanks. I really need this. Please don’t stop.”  
   
Bucky won’t.  
   
“How bad was it?” He asks, not wanting to, but unable to stop himself. Tony laughs slightly, too relaxed to have his guard up high.  
   
“He tried to be kind,” he says. “You know, gentle. Tried to make it nice for me, which is better than… not.”  
   
“If you’re pregnant,” Bucky begins, but Tony cuts him off.  
   
“I’m not.” He says shortly.  
   
“But you could be.”  
   
“But I’m not.”  
   
Bucky won’t pry. If Tony doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t have to. They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it. He goes in a little harder, massages his thumb in a broad stroke across Tony’s neck, and is rewarded with a soft moan, barely audible, breaking from the back of his throat. It’s beautiful. Bucky wants to make Tony sound like that all the time. Tonight, in bed, he’ll suck Ross’s scent away from his neck till all he smells of is –  
   
Jesus, he must stink of lust. Bucky feels himself going clammy; Tony will be able to scent it.  
   
He doesn’t seem to mind, though. Instead, Tony brings up one arm so it’s draped across Bucky’s knees, shuffles and nuzzles closer so he can rest his head on his thighs. “Like a big hug,” he says, wistfully. “A big hug all over.”  
   
Bucky feels himself stiffen; literally, he clams up, afraid that he’ll push too hard or go too soft. _This_ feels like – cheating. Sleeping together is one thing. This is something that’s reserved for an alpha, is far too intimate for a lowly second-ranked. “Tony,” he whispers, but Tony doesn’t want to hear it. _Oh God._ He’s looking up at him, from under those lashes, lips slightly parted, face slack, pupils large and scenting more and more like gentle pleasure –  
   
“That’s enough for tonight,” Bucky says hastily, taking back his hand. “Sorry.”  
   
Tony’s face screws up, confused. “What?” he asks, still under, and dozy. “No more?”  
   
“No – no more, Tony. I’m sorry.”  
   
“But it feels so good.” His breathing is deep and even; close to sleep. A beat. “Could you do it again?” Tony asks, seemingly unaware, innocent like this.  
   
“Not tonight.”  
   
“Oh,” Tony says quietly, and now he smells slightly sad. “Okay. Can I at least sit here still?”  
   
“Sure you can, Tony. You can sit anywhere.”  
   
So Tony lays his head back down on Bucky’s thigh. He hums to himself, scratching with his finger at the denim of Bucky’s pant leg. He wants to touch him again. He wants to keep touching him till he’s stripped and pliable and smiling, always.  
   
Bucky can’t have these thoughts. Fantasy is one thing. This is real. If he wanted, he could have Tony.  
   
God, that would make him scummy. As scummy as people think he is.  
   
“Can you stroke my hair?” Tony asks quietly, after some time. “I’ll stroke yours too if you like, to be fair.”  
   
 _I’ll stroke yours too._ Jesus, Mary, Joseph, he can’t – “No, Tony,” he manages, strangled. “I – need to go. I need to be going.” He stands too soon, and Tony slumps slightly, staring up at him, face twisted.  
   
“Oh,” he says, blinking lassitude away, rubbing his eyes. “Are you leaving? I only just – I only just got here.”  
   
“I know. I’m sorry. I just remembered I had work that – it’s on the desktop, so.”  
   
“I can help,” Tony says, clambering to his feet. He’s too earnest like this. Bucky never should have – it opens him up. Makes him vulnerable. He’ll say and do things he regrets, and Bucky shouldn’t have given in, shouldn’t have touched him _there –_  
   
“It’s confidential,” Bucky lies. Tony looks – ah, fuck. He looks crestfallen.  
   
“Oh,” he says again. “It’s not for omegas, huh? I guess – technically I’m not allowed, so.”  
   
“It’s not confidential like that, it’s just – “ Bucky scrambles to say something that won’t offend, or upset. “Shouldn’t you – I mean, aren’t you tired?”  
   
Tony says nothing for a long while. Bucky imagines he’s trying to find his wits, since Bucky took them away. “Ross said,” he murmurs, staring at a point past Bucky’s head. “He told me that you were – I guess, that you were sweet on me.”  
   
Panic, sheer, blinding panic. “Ross would say anything to upset you,” he chokes.  
   
“No,” Tony says wearily, steady. “No, he’s right. You are sweet on me, and I guess – I know that. Sorry. It’s been a long time since… someone’s treated me like you. And I guess I like stringing you on because, you know. I’m fucked up.” He heaves a sigh, pinches the bridge of his nose. “God,” he mutters, scent going sticky with embarrassment, “you obviously don’t want me, and I just – throw myself at you – “  
   
“But Steve,” Bucky blurts. “Why would you – if Steve is – “  
   
“Steve’s not here,” Tony snaps, sudden. “He’s never here. You are. I love him, but – “  
   
I love him, but.  
   
I love him, _but._  
   
Tony seems to realise what he’s saying. “I love him,” he says slowly, “but he’s gone. And – I’m not thinking straight. My hindbrain wants things I know I can’t have. I want…” he sighs, “I want to feel safe, James. Nothing in this world makes me feel safe anymore, except – “  
   
“Except?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Except you. Except Steve. But like I said: Steve’s gone.”  
   
“He’ll be back.”  
   
“He will. Hopefully. One day, this will be – a nothing. And everything will be as it should. But for now…”  
   
Tony drops to his knees. Bucky thinks, _he wants another neck rub?_ But then his hands are on Bucky’s fly; he’s tugging at his pants. “Let me do this,” he says, concentrated, focused, “let me do this for you.”  
   
“Tony!” Bucky manages, and it’s practically a squawk. He can’t believe – he never thought Tony. Tony never seemed like the type to be _disloyal,_ Ross is one thing, but to the man he actually loves –  
   
“I need to do this,” Tony swears, “you’ve been so good to me. Let me do this for you, even stevens, right? It’s only right, James – “  
   
Bucky butts him away as gently as he can, hastily pushing at his brow. “Tony! I don’t want – _this._ Understand? I don’t want it. Stop.”  
   
Tony makes a noise of frustration. “What’s it now?” He spits, “What, what, why do you keep – fucking with me? _You_ were the one who said you’re the fucking – second alpha, or whatever, you _said_ what happens when Steve isn’t here – “  
   
“I said that so you would feel comfortable finding comfort at night, if that’s what you wanted, and that is fine, Tony. It is. But this isn’t, this is very much – it’s cheating,” he says bluntly. “I’ll be cheating, you’ll be cheating, and I’ll never be able to look Steve in the eyes again.”  
   
Tony stills, stares up at him. “So you don’t want me?” He clarifies. “You don’t want me at all?”  
   
“What I want doesn’t matter. You don’t belong to me.”  
   
Tony’s stroking Bucky’s outer thigh, slowly, surely. “So you do want me,” he continues, undeterred, triumphant. “If you want me, and I want you…”  
   
“Tony – _Steve – “_  
   
“Isn’t here,” Tony snaps again, pushing himself to his feet. He lays his hands on Bucky’s chest, fists his hands slightly in his shirt. “Don’t you get it? _He’s not here._ He doesn’t have to know.”  
   
“Know? Know what?”  
   
“That – that I’m – “ Tony looks down, swallows. “That I want to thank you,” he rejoins. “And I can make you feel so good. _I can._ Trust me, I’ve had practice, there’s nothing Ross likes more than – “  
   
“Don’t talk about him,” Bucky growls, sudden. “Don’t tell me that. I don’t want to hear that.”  
   
Tony’s eyes shutter and tighten into something angry. He pushes him, lightly, hands slapping ineffectually against Bucky’s chest. “Well what if I want to?” He jeers. “What if I want to talk about all the things Ross does to me? And all the things he’s made me do? Is that too hard for you to hear? Is it too much? Is just so – _difficult,_ to listen to me talk about how he sticks his fingers in my mouth and – _makes me do things._ Huh?”  
   
Tony pushes him again, harder. He doesn’t need to stumble, but he does; it’s reflexive, submissive. He wants Tony to think he has physical power, even if it’s an illusion. “I didn’t mean that,” he tries to say. “I mean – yes, I mean it hurts to hear you talk about it, but I’m sorry, if you want to talk about it, we can. But you don’t need to do this,” he pleads. “You don’t need to do things – physically, to me. It won’t make me respect you more, it won’t even make me feel good, not when I know – that your alpha’s in prison so you can be here, with me.”  
   
Tony’s anger flees, chased out by the scent of – something overwrought, and wobbly. “I didn’t mean – “ he swallows. “I didn’t mean I wanted – it’s not cheating. If I just – wanted to make you feel – “ He slumps, suddenly, holds his head in his hands, like he can’t bear to look up, wants to shield even his face, as if even that’s a weakness. “I think I’m not thinking right,” he manages, strained. “I haven’t been for a while, I’m really – fucked up.”  
   
“You’re not,” Bucky promises. “You’re having a natural reaction to a tumultuous – “  
   
“Yeah, I’ve read the literature,” Tony scorns. “There’s a lot of fancy ways of saying ‘fucked up bitch’.”  
   
“You’re not – “  
   
“I am. Ross has turned me into that.” He doesn’t sound upset, just resigned, and maybe a little annoyed. “I can still taste him. That’s why I want to – I think I thought maybe, I don’t know. It would cancel it out.”  
   
He gives a hysterical little giggle, then covers his face again. “And who knows what I really feel,” he continues, “I don’t even know what I feel. I lie to myself so I can lie better to others, I’m manipulative, everyone says so.”  
   
“You’re not,” Bucky croaks. “You’re just a little – “ He doesn’t know what to say. “You just have to make do with the weapons you have,” he recovers.  
   
“He makes me do things,” Tony stresses again, and it seems very important to him that Bucky understand this, singular idea. “I don’t like it, I just don’t care when I’m in heat, and then I feel disgusting afterwards.” Maybe without realizing, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “I want – “  
   
He stops. Bucky softens. “What do you want?” He asks, gently.  
   
“I’d just like to do something for myself,” Tony says. “I’d like to make you feel good. I guess – yeah, there’s a part of me that wants to suck you so maybe you’ll love me too. And if you love me, you won’t leave. And I won’t be alone, and I won’t be…” he looks exhausted, suddenly. “I’m really fucked up,” he mutters.  
   
“You don’t need to – suck me,” Bucky says awkwardly, “for me to – love you.”  
   
So Tony looks up, tiredly. “Do you love me?” He asks, simply.  
   
It’s not that hard to say, “Yeah. I do.”  
   
Tony nods. “Oh. Okay. I mean, I thought so.”  
   
“I won’t. Not with Steve.”  
   
“Steve,” Tony agrees, and suddenly crumples, like wet paper. “Oh _god,”_ he panics, “what’s wrong with me? What the fuck is – I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I’m screwing everything up. You won’t – “ his voice goes low, and urgent. Scared. “You won’t tell him, will you? I’d kill myself if he left. I’d kill myself if he left because – because I was a desperate bitch. Please,” Tony takes his hand. “Don’t tell him. _Don’t.”_  
   
“I won’t,” Bucky swears. “It’s okay. I understand.”  
   
“I’m just lonely,” he continues, rambling on, “I wanted to get him out of my skin, you know? And I guess I just – you’ve been so kind. And I keep thinking, _what if he leaves?_ And it’s a tale as old as time, you know, if I give you my ass, you like me more, that’s just biology – “  
   
“Tony,” Bucky says steadily. “I promise I won’t – “  
   
“Leave? Yeah, right. Steve said that. He left. Obie used to say he loved me, before he started using me like a punching bag. Don’t lie. Even better, don’t make promises you can’t keep.”  
   
“I’m not. Tony, I’m telling you the way I feel – “  
   
“It’s wrong, this is wrong.” Tony sucks in a breath. “All these things I’ve done, how could I ever think I deserved – “ he braces himself on Bucky’s chest, one hand curling into his shirt. “I’m lurching from one fucking disaster to another – “  
   
It’s instinctual, and maybe not very well thought out, but a monster rises deep from inside Bucky’s stomach, clawing, roaring. It blurts, swelling throughout his chest, up through his spine, his arms, down to his fingers.  
   
He gently rests his palm against Tony’s nape. Covers him, then pulls him forward till he’s pressed against Bucky’s throat. “Don’t panic,” he says, calmly. There’s a grumble there, something deep, and chesty; Tony stills, then unwinds.  
   
“I’m not,” he mumbles, lying. Bucky can smell the lie on him, lots of different lies. He’s shut his eyes, he’s taking in a deep breath, scenting Bucky’s neck. Good. He should. Let him. He scents stress, stinks of it. He has now, for a long time, and Bucky’s nose has acclimatized but still; smelling it up close… it just won’t do. Something needs to be done.  
   
Bucky snuffles through his hair, picks up on that nasty Ross-heat scent, and Tony’s own gorgeous trace underneath. He continues to hold Tony by his nape, not squeezing, or stroking, or scratching, just letting his hand rest there while Tony’s breathing evens, and eventually slows.  
   
“Better?” He asks.  
   
“Yeah,” Tony admits.  
   
“Good. I thought so.”  
   
Testing, he winds his fingers in the short crop at the back of Tony’s head. He pulls, so gently, and Tony goes easy, pulls back his chin completely, more than Bucky demanded. Trusting. Open. Bucky feels his mouth goes slack, has to gather his thoughts; what does he want? What is he trying to offer?  
   
“Good boy,” is the first thing he says, two words he hasn’t used in so long. This dance is instinctual. It’s like throwing on an old, worn coat. “I won’t let you suck me. Without Steve, that’s bad. It’s like cheating, isn’t it Tony?”  
   
Tony slides his eyes down, nods quickly.  
   
“Can I hear you say yes, Tony?”  
   
“Yes,” he croaks. “It would be bad.”  
   
“One day, when Steve is back, maybe we can talk to him about that sort of thing. But for now…”  
   
“It’s bad,” Tony agrees, “can’t. Don’t want to, not really. Not without him.”  
   
“Good boy,” Bucky says again, and Tony melts into his palm.  
   
He likes that. Loves it, even. Ross probably doesn’t do this for him. And maybe, it’s something Tony likes to pretend he doesn’t want. “I want,” Tony rasps, and shuts his eyes.  
   
“What do you want, sweetheart?”  
   
“I want – “ Tony shuts his mouth. Lightly, Bucky pulls the hair at the back of his head, and his lips fall open, make a loose ‘O’. “I want – make it better.”  
   
“Make it better? Sweetheart, you need to use your words.”  
   
Tony makes a frustrated noise instead. Even like this, he’s never afraid to be bratty. “All of it. In me, the – scent. And guilt.”  
   
“Scent? Ross’s scent?”  
   
Tony nods vigorously. “Uh huh,” he says. “Take it out.”  
   
“And the guilt? What should I do with that?”  
   
Tony scents shame. Humiliation. His cheeks flush, and he squirms slightly, not really, not enough to get away. But a demonstration.  
   
“Tony?” Bucky tries again. “Why do you feel guilty? What do you think you’ve done?”  
   
“Steve,” he blurts, thickly. “I tried to – with you. With Ross. I’ve done things with Ross…”  
   
“You know you can’t be guilty for the things Ross makes you do,” Bucky says, sadly. “I can’t punish you for those.”  
   
“Deserve it,” Tony whispers.  
   
Is this it? Is this what Tony’s been carrying with him, all this time? A thick, misplaced sense of guilt, heavy on his chest, for all the things he can’t control. “You don’t. You don’t deserve it.”  
   
“Tried to suck you.”  
   
“I think you were confused. I don’t think you need to be punished for that, Tony.”  
   
And Tony arches his spine, pushes his head back so far the whole line of his throat is bare, chin pointed at the ceiling. “Want it, though,” he whispers, and then seems to close in on himself all at once, curling his shoulders, bringing his head down to rest on Bucky’s chest. He’s shaking. Small, constant little tremors, that make Bucky want to lay him out and hold him until he shakes no more.  
   
“Okay,” Bucky says, evenly. “Tony, do you think it’s okay if I help you? Do you think Steve would mind?”  
   
His silence is telling.  
   
“Can I tell you what I think, Tony? I think, if Steve was here, and if he was watching us, I think he’d be happy. He’d be happy to know that you were safe, and I was taking care of you. Because when he’s gone, that’s my job, isn’t it? To take care of you? Do you agree, Tony?”  
   
A small nod.  
   
“And I know it’s hard, sweetheart, but you just have to use your words one more time for me: do you want me to take care of you now? Do you understand what I mean when I say, take care of you?”  
   
“I think so.” Tony’s voice is muffled by Bucky’s shirt.  
   
“Has Steve ever taken care of you before?”  
   
A nod. “Yeah.”  
   
“So you know it means I’m not going to touch you, or knot you, or put my fingers anywhere near there, you understand?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Good boy,” Bucky says warmly. He tightens his grip on Tony’s nape, guides him to the ground. “We don’t need a bed, okay? I know how much you hate bedrooms.”  
   
Tony is on his knees, hands folded loosely in his lap, eyes half shut. He’s waiting, patiently, mouth slack, muscles lax. Bucky throws pillows on the floor, piles them in a bundle so Tony won’t feel cold on the floorboards. Gently, he guides him, lets him clamber on his hands and knees onto the make-shift nest.  
   
“I know his scent bothers you,” Bucky says. “It bothers me, too. I’ll try and get as much as I can, okay?”  
   
“Okay,” Tony mumbles, stretched out like a star on his belly. “I trust you.”  
   
That warms Bucky to his core; those words he’s had to wait so long to hear, not just from Tony, but from anyone. He lightly straddles the back of Tony’s legs, then stretches out his arms till they blanket Tony’s, clutch at his wrists. Tony shivers; he bucks, once, then groans, head falling against the pillows. It’s a test. He’s testing Bucky’s strength. He knows that he’s held.  
   
Slowly, so not to shock him, Bucky snuffles along Tony’s nape. It stinks of Ross, and some Bucky, too. Tony had showered, scrubbed at his neck as best he could, but the smell is imbedded, will be, until Bucky does something about it.  
   
One lick, testing. Bucky edges the skin with his tongue; it tastes clean, slightly salty with Tony’s panic-sweat. He can taste the stress. Not-good. Not-good at all. So he goes in again, this time harder, a long, hard stroke from the top of Tony’s spine to the start of his hairline.  
   
Tony is utterly boneless beneath him, still under Bucky’s ministrations. Sometimes he huffs, or moans; he’s going under, and so is Bucky. If Natasha walks in right now… well. Let’s hope she doesn’t.  
   
He braces one hand in Tony’s hair, the other by his head, and pushes himself up slightly. He wants to get the glands on the side of Tony’s throat, so he pulls his head to the side, ignoring his little moan. Here, it _reeks_ of Ross; he’s spent himself and rubbed it into the skin, like he owns him, which he _doesn’t._ Bucky doesn’t pay much mind to the noises Tony’s making, the huffing and churring and occasional whimper. This isn’t so Tony feels good, although that is a nice added bonus, one of the ways nature has decided to be kind to omegas.  
   
If this was sexual, or if Bucky was Steve, he would go lower, down to Tony’s private area. He’d suck and lick every trace of Ross from Tony skin, from anywhere Ross has been. But this isn’t sexual. Bucky won’t go there. He’ll do every patch of skin he can find, but that one spot is reserved for Steve.  
   
He stretches Tony’s wrists out by his head and holds them there, goes back in on the back of his neck. The clothes are irritating, now. Not his clothes, no; Tony’s shirt, cheap and wrinkled, stopping him from getting at all that skin. He bites at the neck line and tries to drag it away with his teeth, but no such luck. It just keeps snapping back into place, over the spot Bucky wants to chew.  
   
Frustrated, he growls, letting go of Tony’s wrists. Impatiently he tugs at the shirt, trying to lift it free over Tony’s head, but it takes a lot of wriggling, and Tony is so relaxed it’s like trying to catch a fish with your hands. Bucky snaps his teeth by Tony’s ear; _help!_ And Tony grumbles, lifting his belly so Bucky can bundle up the shirt and toss it in a pile somewhere. Doesn’t matter. It’s gone. Back to the task at hand.  
   
He stretches out Tony’s wrists again and lays himself flat across his back, fixing his lips on the back of Tony’s neck. First, he’s just sucking, then slightly harder. Then, a hint of teeth. Tony huffs, squirms; “hhngh,” he says, coherently, twisting beneath him, almost as if trying to flip onto his side. Bucky wonders what it feels like. Good, he thinks.  
   
“Keep hands there,” Bucky manages, using his own hands to hold Tony’s head flat against the pillows, the other to steady his back. He bites, once, lightly, and Tony exhales in a rasp, flat sounding moan, sharp, hands coming to curl by his shoulders.  
   
“No,” Bucky insists, firmly. “Hands out.” It’s important. He doesn’t know why, it just is. He sets himself back on Tony’s neck, a slight bite, then smoothed with tongue, and Tony keeps jerking, his hands first gripping the pillows till his knuckles are white, then coming back to settle by his head.  
   
“No!” Bucky says again, and he tugs at the piece of thread holding together the hood of his sweater. He pulls and pulls until it slips out of the wool, long enough that it can easily wrap around Tony’s wrists, strong enough to hold him, weak enough that if he was desperate he could break loose. “ _Stay,”_ Bucky growls, and Tony bucks his hips. _Brat._  
  
Growling, Bucky snaps the waistband of Tony’s sweats. Tony doesn’t care; he bucks his hips again, snuffling happily. _Playing?_ Bucky thinks. No good! This is _serious,_ Tony! Why do you not take it seriously? Bucky snaps the waistband of his sweats again, this time sharper, but it just makes Tony yelp, wiggle his hips. Frustrated, Bucky swats him, over his sweats, and Tony stills; his scent goes funny. Warm, fuzzy, scenting like embarrassment, but also –  
   
Oh. _Oh._  
   
If Tony feels guilty, this will make it better. Carefully, inch by inch, Bucky slides Tony’s sweats down over his ass. He lets them rest just under the plump curve, so he’s not completely naked. Testing, he swats him again, once, slightly harder; Tony’s scent goes hot. He spreads his legs. _Oh._  
   
Bucky doesn’t want to hurt. He wants to give Tony what he wants. Tony wants this, Bucky promised he would take care of him. If this makes him better…  
   
He tries a smack. Short, sharp. The skin under Bucky’s hand turns a fascinating shade of pink, just the same colour as Tony’s cheeks. He tries again, using his flesh hand, and Tony barks, then moans.  
   
Carefully, so not to make him move _too_ much and ruin the peace, Bucky puts Tony on his hands and knees and over his lap. He lets Tony bury his face in the pillow. He strokes him, coos, and helps him kick off the rest of the sweats. Tony is naked, lying on his lap, warm and snuggly and wriggling. Bucky smacks him again, once on each cheek, watches the skin redden. And then again. And then again.  
   
“Better?” Bucky asks, because it’s all he can manage. Tony head, smushed into some pillows, nods. His breathing is – long, and slow. Deep. Gently, Bucky slides his lap from out under Tony’s hips and blankets him once more, lies on top so the air gets pushed out of his lungs and he sinks, sinks, sinks.  
   
“Good boy,” Bucky rumbles, deep from his chest. “Such a good boy. A – a clever boy. All you wanted was for someone to take care of you, huh? We’ll take care of you, Tony. Good boy. Good boy.”  
   
He strokes the back of his neck, slow and smooth, and Tony sighs, exhales until there’s no breath left in his body and he’s lying, blissed out. He drools a bit, but that’s okay. That’s the point. Bucky wipes it with the discarded hem of his shirt. Tony’s nakedness doesn’t mean anything; it’s not sexual. It’s just skin. And the longer Bucky strokes him, the more he seems to be fighting sleep.  
   
“It’s alright,” Bucky says. “I won’t go anywhere. I won’t sleep. No one will hurt you when I’m here, Tony. No one’s going to lock you in. No one’s going to take you away.”  
   
“Y’promise?” Tony asks, open, innocent, guileless.  
   
“I promise,” Bucky swears.  
   
Tony’s eyes shut, just like that.  
   
   
Someone’s stroking his hair, and humming.  
   
 _Omega,_ his nose tells him. Good. No-threat. He buries closer against something – a belly? A thigh? And lets himself be stroked.  
   
No concept of time. “Are you awake?” Natasha asks him, voice a whisper. Tony doesn’t respond. Goodnight, Natasha.  
   
   
He’s not in his nest, but he doesn’t know how he got here.  
   
He smells Bucky; _bucky bucky bucky._ Coal and… oak. Such good, hearty smells. He has his nose pressed to his outer thigh, cheek resting on his leg while Bucky does – something. Writes, or eats, or types, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, so long as he keeps doing that thing to the back of his neck.  
   
“Hmm,” Bucky says, not looking down. “You like that, sweetheart?”  
   
Hey! Pay me attention, please! Tony scrapes his teeth across Bucky’s skin playfully, which gets him a raised brow. “Can you use words?”  
   
He shakes his head. Nuh-uh. That’s effort. But he wants _attention._ All eyes on him, please. And don’t you stop that, don’t you dare.  
   
“Five minutes, Tony. Then I’m all yours.”  
   
No! _Now._ Tony starts to clamber up onto the couch, squeezing himself into the tight spots between Bucky’s body and the arm rest. He bites the material on Bucky’s shoulder, tugs. _Bucky!_ He tries to whine, but the word is… it comes out as a long, displeased, groan. He throws his arms around Bucky’s neck, aware that maybe that might be blocking his view of the laptop screen. But Bucky just laughs a little, pushes it aside, and lets Tony crawl onto his lap and seat his face in his throat.  
   
“Okay,” he says, “fine. What do you want, hmm? Do you just like the attention?”  
   
Tony likes to lay his ear against Bucky’s chest and listen to his heart. Duh-dun. Duh-dun. Duh-dun. He’s gone without being touched for so long he never wants to be let go.  
   
Duh-dun. Duh-dun. Duh-dun.  
   
   
He dreams of Steve.  
   
“You’re moving,” he’s saying, annoyed. “Stop moving.”  
   
“Draw faster.”  
   
“If I could draw faster, you wouldn’t need to be here, would you?”  
   
“And what a shame that would be.” Tony twitches his toes, stretches out a little more on the couch. “Then you wouldn’t get all this time with little old me.”  
   
“That would be a shame,” Steve agrees, seriously, but then he looks up, and his eyes are smiling. “Stop looking at me,” he laughs, “look at the window.”  
   
“Artfully disheveled. Very candid.”  
   
“Mmm. You are _very_ candid,” Steve says. It’s sunny. It’s warm. It’s summer, the summer after… HYDRA, and SHIELD. They’re in Steve’s little apartment.  
   
Tony had teased him, because he couldn’t understand why Steve insisted on living in such a pokey little place in America’s worst city when he could be living in a mansion in New York, his home.  
   
“Because,” Steve had said pointedly, “I don’t like the townhouse. Too many ghosts.”  
   
Tony and Obie’s townhouse, he means, the one they would stay in when they visited New York for months at a stretch. “The tower, then.”  
   
Steve’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t like my floor. I mean – I love the design but…”  
   
“But?”  
   
A shrug. “It’s lonely. It’s too open-plan, too airy.”  
   
Tony frowns. “You wouldn’t be living on your floor,” he says, “unless you wanted to, I guess.”  
   
Steve looks up. “What are you saying, sweetheart?” He asks gently.  
   
“I’m saying, you would live with me. We’d live together.”  
   
“Together.”  
   
“Why not? I’m practically here every other day anyway. And I’d like – you know,” Tony remembers he’d gotten a little bashful, “to do things for you. I want to see you when I wake up, I want to cook you dinner, I want – “  
   
“Not very traditional, is it? Living together, unmarried,” Steve says airily. “What _will_ society think, Tony?” He says with a satisfied little smile.  
   
“Goodness gracious,” Tony gasps, “whatever will they say, me, sharing my bed with a big, bad alpha-caller, who is so rough and won’t even – stop laughing! Why are you laughing? I’m being serious! Stop it!”  
   
   
Tony wakes feeling –  
   
Upset, but distantly. Like there’s a nudging worry at the back of his mind, but he doesn’t want to think about it.  
   
“Hey,” Bucky says quietly, one hand coming to stroke his nape. “How you feeling? Ready to come back?”  
   
 _No._ Tony shakes his head, shuts his eyes. _Nuh-uh. But keep doing that._  
   
His fingers are so warm, and so strong. It’s like –  
   
It’s like falling in love all over again.  
   
Guilt, piercing. Stabbing him in the belly. He remembers why the dream left him so uneasy.  
   
 _But he’s not here now,_ Tony thinks, _and I’m so unhappy. He would want me to be happy, he would._  
   
Bucky brushes hair off of his face. “Don’t frown,” he murmurs, “be easy. Be easy, for me.”  
   
For him.  
   
   
Unfortunately, reality has a nasty way of slapping you on the ass when you least expect it.  
   
“He’s here,” Natasha says, flatly. “He wants to see you.” She doesn’t say who ‘he’ is, or why he’s arrived, or even suggest that Tony doesn’t talk to him. Instead, she throws him a robe and slippers, checks his pupils. “You’re alert enough,” she concedes. “Don’t tell him anything. Keep holding him off. You’ve been down about four, five days.”  
   
She snaps her fingers, holds up her hand. “How many fingers am I – “  
   
Tony bats her away. “I’m awake,” he grouches. “I get it.”  
   
“Good.” A brief pause. “If he asks about the heat – “  
   
“I’ll tell him no luck yet.”  
   
Natasha nods. “Good. Okay. If he gets aggressive – “  
   
“I get it, Nat.”  
   
They’ve let him into the living room of their little safe haven; he’s sitting on the couch, on the pillows Tony so lovingly made into a nest not three days ago. But he stands abruptly when Tony enters, brushes down his clothes. “Tony,” he says, “you – thank you, for coming down.”  
   
As if he had a choice.  
   
“It’s good to see you,” he continues. “You look well. Honestly, you’re very – replenished.”  
   
“Thanks,” Tony says shortly. He hovers, until Ross sort of jerks his chin, indicates he should sit. It’s petty, but he hates being invited to do something in his own home.  
   
“You – “ Ross sniffs, surreptitious. “You’ve been with Barnes a lot.”  
   
“He’s been teaching self-defense. We’ve been close.” As if that will explain the coal-scent that’s been hanging around him like a cloud for the past week.  
   
After a brief, awkward pause, Ross continues. “I hope – “ he clears his throat, starts again. “I hope I wasn’t too rough with you – “  
   
“You weren’t.”  
   
“You didn’t seem very – “  
   
“I never do.”  
   
“Well, it’s good to see you’re back to yourself, anyway. I imagine I’ll soon get tired of your constant sniping.”  
   
“Let’s hope. I mean, you could always dope me again, so it’s not that bad.”  
   
“Right,” Ross agrees easily, laughing like Tony’s told a funny joke. “I guess – well, I guess I’d hoped you – might be planning on coming home.”  
   
Tony’s heart leaps into his throat. “Home?” He croaks. _This is home._  
   
“Because you seem well,” Ross says, pointedly. “Clearly, you’re back to yourself. This little decision of mine did you the world of good, which is great, but the election’s coming up and people want to know – “  
   
“I don’t want to,” Tony blurts. “I don’t want to go back with you.”  
   
Ross says nothing. “I see,” he says, after a time.  
   
“Not – not forever,” Tony corrects, lying through his teeth. “Just that – I don’t feel 100%, you know? I think – we should wait till after the election. Then I’ll know where you stand, and – if you don’t win – “  
   
“We’ll win. It’s tight, but – we’ll win.”  
   
“Okay, sure. But if you don’t, everything will go back to normal and – “  
   
“There’s a gala,” Ross say stiffly. “I told Warren you would be there. Don’t worry, he’s not going to try anything with you, and if he does… well, you tell me, and I’ll sort him out.”  
   
“A gala?”  
   
“Last push. You have to be there. You _have_ to.” Ross considers him, looks him up and down. “You can stay here,” he concedes, “you can stay till after the election if – and only _if –_ you come. And your little friends,” he adds, grudgingly. “For some reason, people view them as neutral. We could do with some influential support.”  
   
“Then we’ll be there,” Tony agrees readily, “absolutely. Yes, definitely, so long as – “  
   
“And your Captain,” Ross throws out, casually. “He’ll be there, too.”  
   
Tony is caught short, guilt stabbing at him. “Steve? Steve’ll be there?”  
   
“Well, it is part of the agreement.”  
   
“The… agreement?”  
   
Ross frowns. “Yes. He stays out of my hair, shows up for some press events, and in return you get to pull a vacation with – “  
   
“Steve’s in the Raft,” Tony says slowly.  
   
“Only till you come home. We struck a deal, I thought you… knew,” Ross finishes, smile creeping across his face. “You didn’t, did you? They didn’t tell you.”  
   
Tony swallows, but now the guilt is so thick it wants to choke him. “So if I went home with you today, you’d – he’d be free?”  
   
“Sure. But _someone_ put ideas in his head that you were having a rough time of it with me, which you _weren’t,”_ Ross adds, forcefully. “He and Barnes worked the whole thing – “  
   
“Oh, they worked it out did they, together?”  
   
Ross looks smug, beyond smug. “Of course. You didn’t think I’d just let you go, did you?”  
   
“For my health? Wellbeing? I don’t know. Maybe I thought, briefly, you gave a fucking damn.”  
   
“Don’t tell me this is about your hurt feelings. I don’t love you enough, that it?”  
   
“You fucking wish,” Tony snarls. “It’s about – “  
   
His anger crests, and then snaps. He snaps it, ends it. Does not let it consume him. Instead he fists his hands on the couch, steadies himself. “It’s about,” he continues, “the fact that you have systematically destroyed my life – “  
   
Ross rolls his eyes. “Here we go again.”  
   
“Whether you admit to it or not, you are a narcissistic, stupid little man – “  
   
“Getting personal, are we?”  
   
“ – and if you think for a second I would ever come to love you – “  
   
“Are you upset they didn’t tell you? Is that what this is about?”  
   
Tony can’t understand it. Is he willfully oblivious. “You locked me in a house,” he says slowly, “for _months._ You drugged me. Don’t you get that – “  
   
“I understand it, Tony, I just don’t think you should care. Or be surprised.” Ross pulls out a cigar, lights up. “Anyway,” he continues, “We had a deal. Rogers stays in the Raft – “  
   
“I knew that,” Tony snaps. “I knew he did that for me.”  
   
“Right. But they neglected to mention we’d be trotting him out for state occasions. This whole thing has worked out well for me, don’t you think?”  
   
“I think you’re not going to last long,” Tony says, honestly. “I think time is running out.”  
   
Ross nods, like he’s sympathetic. “Sure,” he says, patronizingly. “If you say so.” He stands. “Really,” he says, “it’s good to see you in such high spirits. Back to normal.” A beat. “Don’t think I don’t smell Barnes on you, Tony. I know you’re a slut, but really. Barnes? _Barnes?”_  
   
Tony has learnt, now. He’s learnt never to show a weakness, or a blind spot. “He’s a better fuck than you,” he smiles.  
   
Ross drills his unsmoked cigar into the couch cushion, drops it on the floor and pushes it into the carpet. “Don’t try and be clever Tony,” he says sharply. “This is all a lot easier for the both of us when you’re stupid.”  
   
And then, he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow did i take, uh, four months to post this? wow um. sorry.
> 
> is anyone still reading?? don't blame u if ur not. This is acutally planned to end, i'm just busy, and then i get caught up w other stories, etc. comments make me want to post!
> 
> i've also just started another omega tony story that's........... pretty different to this one, but if u like check it out and tell me what u think
> 
> and i will finish this. eventually.


	18. Chapter 18

**Bucky**  
   
Tony does the bowtie for him. Bucky had forgotten how. He loops it, folds it, tightens; brushes down imaginary lint from Bucky’s shirt, his shoulders. “There,” he says, voice flat, distant. “You look just like a real boy.”  
   
He’s still upset. ‘Upset’ is the word he’d used. “You didn’t tell me,” he’d spat, accusatorially. “You told me he was in the Raft, you told me Ross was keeping him there, you didn’t – you _neglected_ to mention they were using him as a prize pony.”  
   
Bucky had tipped him head, tried to explain. “You weren’t well,” he’d begged. “We didn’t want to – overstress you – “  
   
“ _’Overstress you,’”_ Tony had mocked, voice childish. “And after? What was your excuse after?”  
   
“There was no after. You were ill, then you were better, then you found out, but we were going to tell you – “  
   
“I am tired,” Tony had spat, “of people like you making decisions for me. Like I’m – some kind of child, or idiot. Next time,” he’d sworn, slapping his hands against Bucky’s chest, “you tell me.”  
   
And Bucky had said, yes Tony, next time, I promise.  
   
Now, he won’t talk to him. Not really. The trust, the familiarity, it isn’t – it isn’t gone, exactly. Natasha rolls her eyes are him when he mentions it. “He’s upset,” she tells him, “sometimes people fight, it’s not the end of the world, he still trusts you and you’ll both get over it.”  
   
She’s probably right. She usually is.  
   
Tony is supposed to be going with Ross. Barnes watches him remake himself: he washes his hair, puts some kind of product through it, shaves, runs a brown kohl under his eyes, scents himself with some kind of expensive perfume. He wears a veil, but it’s pushed back on his head, in blatant disregard for tradition. “That won’t make Warren happy,” Bucky comments, and Tony just gives him a tight smile, forced.  
   
“Well,” he says, flatly, “you know I live please my alphas.”  
   
   
 **Tony**  
   
They travel in silence.  
   
“You’ll behave yourself,” Ross tells him, like it’s a given. “You won’t go looking for trouble.”  
   
“I never do,” Tony says, staring out the window.  
   
And that’s it. That’s all they have to say to each other.  
   
Ross deposits him in the omega lounge and tells him to stay put. Not a fucking chance. Tony has a goal, an aim, and Ross is fucking stupid if he thinks he isn’t going to seek Steve out. He’s stupid to even consider putting Tony here, at this party, and expecting it to end well for him.  
   
Tonight, no matter what happens, it’ll be done. Finished. Tony will be free of them all, Ross, Warren, even Barnes and Steve. He won’t _need_ them. But God, does he want them.  
   
“Tony!” Nick of Warren latches on to him. “You’re here! You’re here!” He laughs happily and hugs Tony too tight. “I haven’t seen you in so long! I wanted to see you! Warren said no, he said you’d been bad, I – have you seen my baby? Have you seen Bella? I mean – Ann? Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she the best?”  
   
“Say, Nick,” Tony asks distractedly, peering around the room; Natasha isn’t here yet. “You want to get some cake?”  
   
Nick’s eyes light up. “Cake? I love cake!”  
   
Tony slips away, pulling Nick with him. An alibi. If Ross asks, ‘what are you doing out here?’ Tony tells him, Nick of Warren wanted cake, and we all know we have to make sure Nick doesn’t cause a scene.  
   
“Mary says it’s good PR, to show the baby. But they’re gone, and I’m left, and I don’t get to hold her. And Mary – she has no mothering instinct, she doesn’t hug her at night, or sing her her favourite songs.”  
   
Tony doesn’t care about Nick, or Mary, or the whole diseased family. “Ok, Nick,” he manages. No doubt Warren likes to keep Nick hidden from the cameras, packs him off to sit with the other broken omegas. He’s straining his neck, trying to see over the crowd, but there’s no sign of Steve;  
   
“She’s so pretty, you know?” Nick babbles on, “She looks just like me. Well, I say so, Mary says I’m being stupid, but she always say that, so I don’t know. Maybe I am. But she definitely has my eyes, no doubt about that – “  
   
“Nick could you just – stop?” Tony bites out, shortly. “Just for a second?”  
   
“Oh,” he looks crestfallen. “I’m sorry. Was I talking too much again?”  
   
“Just a bit. Hey, you can help me,” Tony rejoins, feeling bad despite himself. “I’m looking for a guy, about this tall, big, broad, blond hair – “  
   
“The Captain?” Nick says, helping himself to a slice of cake.  
   
“The – yes! Yes, the Captain – “  
   
“You’re not supposed to be looking for him, Warren told me. He said you did improper things together, committed sin against the marriage bed, or something.” He pauses. “I didn’t tell him your secret,” he continues, quietly, “I didn’t tell him that you were going to run aw – “  
   
“Tony,” Ross says, leadenly, voice dripping with spite. “Who are you looking for?”  
   
Tony turns and faces the food table, starts piling a plate with little cakes. “No one,” he mutters.  
   
“Really. Well in that case, maybe you and Of Warren should head to the O lounge.”  
   
“Hi, Mr Ross,” Nick says pleasantly. “You look nice tonight.”  
   
“Thank you, Of Warren, that’s very kind of you.”  
   
“Have you seen my baby?” Nick asks, chirpy. “Doesn’t she look like me? Everyone says she looks like me, except Mary and – I mean, except Of Warren and Warren. But you know she’s mine, right? You could tell that she’s mine from looking at her. Doesn’t she has beautiful eyes? My eyes. Everyone always told me I had such pretty – “  
   
Tony clears his throat, takes Nick’s arm. He meets Ross’s eyes, briefly; is he wrong to see some sympathy there, or maybe pity? “C’mon, Nick,” Tony mutters roughly. “We’ll go and sit with the other damaged omegas, hmm?”  
   
“What about my – cake!” Nick exclaims happily as Tony hands him his plate. “This is great. Isn’t it great? I love parties.”  
   
Ross grabs Tony’s arm, holds him, whispers in his ear. “You look after him tonight,” he murmurs. “We don’t need him causing a scene.”  
   
Tony wrenches away. “Right, _Sir._ ”  
   
“And don’t think I’m not watching you.”  
   
“How could I ever forget? C’mon, Nick. We’re leaving.” Tony flips the veil over his head and moves through the crowd, anonymous. He sees Bucky, thank God, milling awkwardly, skulking on the sidelines; Tony knows he hates parties. If he wasn’t so goddamned angry at him --  
   
Natasha is in the lounge, talking to Edward. “And here he is now,” she says, standing, taking Tony’s arm. “What took you long?” She hisses.  
   
“Nick wanted cake,” Tony smiles, falsely. “Hi Ed.”  
   
“Tony,” Edward says, voice low. “I’m sorry. We – heard.”  
   
“Heard?”  
   
“About what he did to you. Ross.”  
   
“Oh. That’s – thanks. Thank you?”  
   
“Sorry. I shouldn’t bring it up – “  
   
“It’s fine.”  
   
“Edward,” Nick says, tugging his sleeve like a child wanting a treat. “Edward, tell them about Bella. Tell them she looks like me.”  
   
Edward sighs, long-suffering. “Ann,” he corrects, “really looks like Nick.”  
   
“So I’ve heard,” Tony grumbles, stealing a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray.  
   
“I’m sure she’s lovely,” Natasha says warmly, taking Tony aside. “He’s here,” she whispers.  
   
“Here? You’re sure?”  
   
“I saw him after we came in. He’s lost a lot of weight. Don’t be frightened, I think he’s okay,” Natasha soothes, “I know he wants to see you. Don’t push your luck yet – maybe after Warren’s speech there’ll be time.”  
   
Tony doesn’t tell her, after Warren’s speech, there will be no more time. It ends with Warren’s speech, one way or another. Tony is going to win, somehow, some way.  
   
“After,” he agrees, hushed.  
   
   
 **Steve**  
   
Steve searches for him.  
   
He has his orders, like the good little soldier he is. _Smile, shake hands, don’t say anything political. Overstep, and Tony will suffer the consequences._ Steve isn’t scared of that, anymore; he has his hands, he has his legs, he’s not locked in a cell so small all he can do is lie curled lengthwise and just about stretch out his arms across the width –  
   
But he isn’t scared. He’ll find Tony. If Ross doesn’t like it, good. They’ll leave here tonight, and he’ll snap Ross’s neck, and the whole charade will be over and done with. It’s gone on too long, the trying to play both sides. The buck ends tonight.  
   
He can’t find him, though. All the omegas are veiled – shitty, archaic, outdated – and most aren’t even on the main floor, favouring the private balconies and the lounge. Steve isn’t allowed in the lounge; he’d stick out like a sore thumb, and besides, alphas aren’t allowed anyway. What he needs is some way –  
   
He smells him, suddenly, present, close. Steve turns; _Tony?_ No. Bucky, standing at his side, drink grasped tight in his metal fist. “Hi,” he says quietly.  
   
Steve swallows. “Hi,” he rasps.  
   
“You okay?”  
   
“Sure.”  
   
Bucky eyes him up and down. “You look like shit,” he says, bluntly.  
   
“Yeah, well.” What does he want him to say? “You smell like him.”  
   
Bucky bristles, slightly. Steve is aware this isn’t how this reunion is supposed to go. “You were close?” He adds.  
   
“I took care of him, if that’s what you mean.”  
   
Steve isn’t petty. “Good,” he says, truthfully.  
   
Bucky frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
   
“It means, good. How is he now? Better? Ross told me had lost touch, that he was – “  
   
“He’s better. Better every day. It’s been rough for him, but – we’re both to blame.”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve says, listlessly. “Yeah, definitely.”  
   
Ringing in his ears. A hand on the side of his neck. “Hey,” Bucky is urging, quietly. “You okay? You’re spacing out.”  
   
“I – want to see him,” Steve bites out. To see him, to touch him, to hold him, to know that everything is going to be okay. He wants him, he needs him. After that time spent underground, only the hum of processed air to keep him occupied, he wants – something real, to touch, to feel –  
   
“Okay,” Bucky is saying, placating. “Okay, we’re going to help you see him. But after, alright? After Warren’s said his piece.”  
   
“I want to kill him, Buck.”  
   
“Yeah, I know,” Bucky sighs, sympathetic. He rubs Steve’s shoulder. “Just hang in there.”  
   
“If I don’t get away tonight, they’ll put me back in the Raft.”  
   
“Then you’ll get away.”  
   
“They’ll hurt Tony.”  
   
“Then he’ll get away too. We can create a diversion, cause a scene. It’ll be perfect when Warren gives his – “  
   
“I need to see him, though. I need to know he’s okay.”  
   
Bucky is looking at him strangely. Pitying? No, that’s not right. Bucky has nothing to pity Steve, Steve is…  
   
Steve is watching Ross and Warren hastily mount some stairs, slip away. “Wait here,” he says, moving forward.  
   
“Steve. Steve where are you – “  
   
“Get Natasha,” he calls back, “I want to see her. Tell her to – to meet me down here, okay?”  
   
“But where are you _going –_ “  
   
He slips into the crowd, mingles, blends. It’s strange; since he spent time in the Raft, he doesn’t feel like himself. People don’t even spare him a second glance, he’s a normal man, thinner than he used to be. He follows Ross and Warren’s voices down the corridor, hears them enter a room; he halts in an alcove, neatly hidden, crouches, ear pressed to the wall.  
   
“We don’t need him. Evidently, he’s a liability. You’ve been all bluster no action, Ross. _Send him away._ Somewhere far. Let people forget, and then – maybe we’ll arrange an accident for him. Maybe it’ll all get too much for him, and he’ll finally slit his wrists. Or jump out a window. Or overdose. I’m not sure yet. Point is, we need him _gone.”_  
  
“Do you spend all your time fantasizing about killing Tony, Warren?”  
   
“He rarely crosses my mind at all.”  
   
“And that night in kitchen? What was that? He told me what you did. Everyone knows you can’t keep it in your fucking pants. Look what you did to that poor boy – Nick. He was a whore, Warren, and you -- ”  
   
Warren blusters. “Stark came on to me,” he lies through his teeth, “if you were fool enough to believe him – “  
   
“I believe your ego – your instability -- will lose us the fucking election.” Steve hears shuffling, something breaking, like glass. “I’m not afraid of you, Warren. I’m _stronger_ than you, I’m better than you. But you know that, don’t you?”  
   
“I – I – “ Warren clears his throat. “That’s enough, you don’t need – “  
   
“You understand, then.”  
   
“All I’m saying,” Warren continues, carefully, “is that he needs to be – removed. Taken out of the equation. Have you not – “ and his voice dips into a hiss “ – have you not seen them? The two alphas, Barnes and the Captain, stalking around the hall?”  
   
Ross laughs. “I can go toe to toe.”  
   
“Fine. But so long as Stark’s around, so are they, and all the rest of the freaks, sniffing like dogs around a bitch – “  
   
“You’re underestimating him.”  
   
“Am I? Did you or did you not keep him locked in that room for five weeks? Tony Stark,” Warren spits, and he’s using the alpha pejorative for his name, “supposed to be so clever he could blast he way out of a cave. I’m not surprised if that was just some kind of fluke. Luck, sheer dumb luck. From what I’ve seen, he has a sharp tongue, and that’s about it.”  
   
“No one can escape everything. There was nothing in that room he could use.”  
   
“And how would this be different?”  
   
“Because – he’ll find a way,” Ross snaps. “He always does. You think you have him, and then he just – slips through your fingers.”  
   
“He’s broken,” Warren dismisses. “You’ve addled his brain. Send him away, so he can stop being a nuisance. I can’t believe we’re still having this conversation – don’t tell me you’re actually fond of him?”  
   
“He has people who care about him. They won’t be put off.”  
   
“Then we’ll find them a new omega. And if they continue to cause trouble, we’ll put them in the Raft. Only take them out when we need them. In the world we create – these people mean nothing. They won’t cause trouble for us anymore.””  
   
“People like them?”  
   
“I don’t mean – you. I mean, immoral. Deviant. It’s not the freaks who are the issue, it’s the bad apples. We need to – “  
   
Steve hears someone knock at the door. “Excuse me Sir,” a man says hastily, “they’re ready for you now.”  
   
“Excellent,” Warren says briskly. “Tell them I’m coming now. Ross. After you.”  
   
He hears them file down the hall. Swiftly, quietly, he slides back the way he came and down the wide, red stairs. _He wants to kill Tony,_ Steve’s brain chatters. Worse than that: that sticky, greasy, creepy son-of-a-bitch had _touched_ him, touched Tony, and he will not stand for it, not all, not –  
   
“You stink,” Bucky hisses. “Where the fuck were you? You – Jesus, Steve, you smell like you just went toe-to-toe with someone, why the fuck do you stink of fight?”  
   
“I’m gonna kill’im,” Steve manages coherently, before lunging.  
   
“No you – _idiot,”_ Bucky spits. “Are you out of your mind? Would you just – stop! Stay there. What’s wrong, what happened? Is it Tony? Is he hurt?”  
   
“He was.”  
   
“Yeah, no shit he was. You want to make it worse? No? Good. Then shut up, listen to the speech, and I’ll help you find Tony.”  
   
They don’t have to look far. He sees him, for the first time in a long time. He _has_ lost weight, certainly. Steve can’t see his face, he can’t see his face, _God,_ he just wishes he could see his face. The veil hides it all, but Steve knows he’s thinner, and that’s evidence enough for him. When this is done, Steve is going to make sure he gets three square meals and eats them, that he’s happy at all times, that the awful stress that’s written in his shoulders is smoothed out and taken away –  
   
Ross touches him, puts a hand on his shoulder, _squeezes,_ like maybe he’s trying to be comforting. Tony shrugs him off. Does he see him? Should Steve say something, wave, make a sound? Risk attracting Ross’s wrath?  
   
“In one week,” Warren begins, “we will save this country. Not from nuclear weapons, or great recessions, or war. We will save it _from itself.”_  
   
The crowd cheers, like Warren has said something deeply profound. “Greed,” he continues, “pride. Gluttony. Sloth. _Lust._ We are a country at war with itself. Families broken, our own omegas forced to work to make ends meet – and for what reason? In one week, we’ll – “  
   
There’s a commotion going on, somewhere at the back of the hall. Murmurs, muttering, people parting, making way. “Stop!” Someone is screeching. “Stop! Wait! They took my baby! They’ve taken my baby!”  
   
Warren comes to a shuddery halt. “Nicholas,” he says, as if trying to be kind. “Oh dear. My friends, Nicholas is a troubled soul, who came to us in poor health – “  
   
It’s an omega, petite, black hair and blue eyes. A pretty, graceful little thing, who looks half-mad, rabid, desperate. A feeling, like being punched in the gut; Steve feels it. He knows Bucky feels it. He’d wager half the alphas in this room – at least, the ones human enough to actually _feel –_ feel it too. Pain, distress, an overwhelming desire to stop the rampant desperation and hurt the wailing omega feels.  
   
“They’ve taken my baby,” Nicholas sobs, hands grasping at the gathered circle. “ _Please,”_ he begs, “give her back, please, give her back.”  
   
“That’s enough boy,” Warren says, voice low, almost trying to be comforting. “Come here now, stop causing a scene.”  
   
“No!” He screams, slapping at Warren’s hands. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare! They take her,” Nick implores, “they take her and I never see her. Please,” he chooses a random woman at the front of the circle, “will you help me? Someone? Please?”  
   
The baby starts to cry, and the frantic omega whips round. “I’m coming, sweetie!” He cries, shrill. “Mommy’s coming, I’m coming – “  
   
“Nicholas,” Warren sighs, rubbing his hands along the omega’s shoulders, “you’re tired. Josiah, take Nick to the suite – “  
   
Steve sees it coming before it happens. Nick draws back his head, gargles, and lobs spit at Warren’s face, directly between his eyes. The crowd is silent. Warren drops him, wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Josiah,” he says calmly, “bring me my bible.”  
   
Steve spies Tony, pushing through the guests who have crowded round. He’s flanked by another omega, tall, lanky, unhealthy looking with yellowing skin, coughing into a tissue. He meets Steve’s eyes – meets them, sees him, for the first time – and ignores him, saying something to the omega that Steve can’t hear.  
   
“No.” Nick steps back, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t – mean it, I didn’t mean it.” He spins wildly, implores the crowd. “You all _know_ I didn’t mean it. You do! You all know!”  
   
Nick spits on the floor once, twice, as if to show it’s all a funny joke. What does Warren do? Sermonize? Why would he need his bible at all? Tony’s eyes are narrowed, ticking over, like he’s trying to figure out the same thing. Warren has Nick by the scruff, and the boy goes limp, eyes glassy, batting weakly at his alpha’s arm. “Disobedience is sin,” Warren says simply. “We do not tolerate it from those put on this earth to serve us.”  
   
A few, uneasy murmurs of agreement. Most of these people, Steve bets, aren’t true believers. They’re hangers-on, like Ross, the terminally greedy, the perpetually amoral. Most will have omegas of their own, if not omega children, brothers, sisters, cousins. Most of them, Steve likes to think, don’t actually treat them like scum under their shoe. In fact, Steve would wager the omegas of these alphas are educated, that they’ll be married at a decent age to alphas who have been carefully vetted. But that’s for _these_ people, the rich, the better-off. Ordinary people, they’ll have to step in with Warren’s theological utopia or get left behind. “Warren,” someone says, “save this for later. It’s your night, tonight, don’t let a boy – “  
   
“No, David. If I lead, I lead by example. Thank you, Josiah,” Warren smiles, taking the book from his son’s hands. It’s thick, old, leather covered, weathered and wrinkled. “Nick,” he says kindly, “kneel down for me boy, that’s it.”  
   
Warren stands behind him, thumbing through the pages. Nick’s eyes are glassy, he’s unsteady on his knees; Warren must have pinched his nape hard. Steve watches as he finds his page. Should he do something? Should one of them step in? If all he’s going to do is read out a couple of passages –  
   
Warren has lifted the book over his head, brought it down like a baseball bat, and slammed it against the back of Nick’s head with the full force of all his strength. Someone in the crowd screams. The omega falls face first, flat on the marbled floor, his nose bleeding, Steve can’t help it, _fightfightFIGHT_ flares up before he can even stop himself, and it’s only for Bucky holding him physically back that he doesn’t take a bit of Warren’s neck. “If you kill him, it’s the Raft,” Bucky hisses.  
   
“Omegas are to be submissive to their own masters in everything; they are to be well-pleasing, not argumentative, not pilfering, but showing all good faith, so that in everything they may adorn the doctrine of God our Savior,” Warren preaches. “Amen.”  
   
“Amen,” his wife chimes in.  
   
The room is silent.  
   
“Husbands, love your wives, and do not be harsh with them,” Tony says, quietly. “That’s – that’s the line, isn’t it? I think that’s the line. I learnt it for you, so.”  
   
Warren turns. “Hebrews, 13:4,” he spits. “Marriage should be honored by all, and the marriage bed kept pure, for God will judge the adulterer and all the sexually immoral.” He glares at Tony, he glares at the gangly omega beside him. “Do not _taint_ the good book with your hypocrisy, Of Ross.”  
   
“You’ve already tainted it with his blood,” Tony says. “Of course, talking about hypocrisy – this one I know. Exodus, I remember, something about… if a man seduces a virgin, and lies with her, he shall give the pride price and make her his wife. Which, well, fair enough,” Tony says, stepping forward. “No one can say you don’t follow your scripture to the letter.”  
   
He crouches in the center of the floor and gently rolls over Nicholas, softly tests the wound on the back of his head. “You’re alright,” he says softly, “c’mon, sit up now.”  
   
Murmurs, and Warren looks murderous. “Get your hands away from him, you – _slut.”_  
   
Shocked gasps. Tony sighs, sits Nick up. He’s woozy, not tracking right. “Someone call a doctor,” he asks calmly.  
   
Warren points a shaking finger. “Flee from sexual immorality!” He shouts, “The sexually immoral omega sins against their own body. You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body!”  
   
“Would someone help him stand?” Tony says, sounding irritated. Steve moves forward, but again, Bucky holds him back.  
   
“Let me go,” he whispers, and Bucky shakes his head tightly.  
   
“You can’t. You’ll kill him.”  
   
The tall omega has already stepped in the circle, crouched to help Nick stand. “Thanks, Edward,” Tony says quietly. “Let’s take him to the lounge.”  
   
“No,” Nick croaks, “wait. Where’s my baby? Ann, sweetheart. Give her to me, please – “  
   
“Of Ross, take your hands from him.”  
   
“He need medical attention,” Tony replies, turning. He lowers his eyes, rests his chin to his shoulder, it’s some major submissive body language, deferral written in every line of Tony’s body. “You’ve beaten the crap out of him, congratulations. You’re the biggest, strongest alpha there is. Now let him go.”  
   
“Tony,” Ross hisses from across the room, pushing past some outraged guests. “Here. _Now.”_  
   
Tony looks at Ross with something akin to – confusion? Concern? He drags his head back to Warren. “I’m not going to let you beat him again,” he says calmly.  
   
Warren squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, bears his teeth. “You will, if you want to be spared the rod.”  
   
Tony laughs, like it’s honestly funny. “I’ve fallen through holes in space and you think I’m scared of a skinny man with his bible? Hit me. Go on. Take a good swing. I’ll even make it easy for you,” Tony turns, and lowers his head. “Go on,” he insists, “hit me. What are you waiting for, big boy, beat me till I’m bloody, you know you want to.”  
   
“Get up,” Warren says, tightly. “It’s not my job to lay hands on another man’s omega.”  
   
“Oh good,” Tony says cheerfully. “So I’ll be spared the rod tonight, will I? Well in that case, Nick and I will be -- ”  
   
Warren lunges, slaps him.  
   
Slaps him.  
   
 _Slaps_ him.  
   
Tony makes a sound like a wounded cat and collapses; Warren is caught by his sons, dragged away, spitting, kicking. “Are you out of your mind, man?” One of them is saying hysterically, “There are cameras! People are recording!”  
   
Bucky lets him loose, then, and Steve’s on the floor in a second. “Tony,” he breathes, “are you hurt? Are you okay? Here, let me – “  
   
“Get away,” Ross snaps, pushing at Steve’s shoulders. “Don’t you fucking dare touch him you dirty, cheating, son of a whore – “  
   
Steve doesn’t have time to think before he stands, twists, and drop-kicks Ross in the chest. The old man stumbles back, disoriented, and Steve slams the flat of his hand against his sternum, sending him sprawling. People are screaming, and then somehow _Warren_ is on his back, clawing at his face and biting his ear.  
   
Steve pushes himself back until he hits a wall, and both of them fall to the floor. Tony’s still lying there, but he’s slowly pushing himself up, laughing hysterically. There’s pandemonium, then; Warren is sticking to Steve’s back for dear life, and Steve doesn’t want to kill him, doesn’t want that responsibility, so he swings round and throws him over his head. Warren lies sprawled, dazed, not far from where his omegas blood is staining the marble floor, and people are screaming, people are filming, people are fleeing.  
   
Ross is choking, his veins bulging on his neck. “He’s having a stroke!” Some cries, “Call an ambulance! Vice-Presidential Nominee General Thaddeus Ross is having a stroke!”  
   
Tony looks down at him, head tilted like it’s a curiosity. “He isn’t having a stroke,” he says calmly, but he’s pushed out the way by one of the medics with a stretcher.  
   
“Sally,” Ross gargles, one hand grasping at air. He’s pointing at Tony, Steve realises, trying to clutch his hand. “Come with me, Sally, they’re – “ he chokes, bile slipping down the side of his mouth, “they’re taking me to the hospital.”  
   
Tony lets Ross take his hand, if only to quiet him. He doesn’t say ‘I’m not Sally’, he just stands while they load him onto the stretcher. “Betty,” Ross whispers, “don’t let her see me like this – “  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” Tony mutters, trying to snatch back his hand. “You!” He calls, pointing at Steve. “Yeah, you! What, you’re just going to stand there? I haven’t got all day, you know.”  
   
Steve’s feet are moving, but he doesn’t remember walking. He’s moving and going and then he’s touching; Tony is real, under his fingers. He’s real, flesh and blood, smelling like adrenalin, hysteria, but good, real scents.  
   
“I’m so sorry,” Steve says, and he’s sobbing. “I’m so sorry.”  
   
Tony is wrapping his arms around Steve’s broad back, standing on his toes to rest his chin on his shoulder. “Please don’t apologise,” he whispers.  
   
“But I am,” Steve swears, and hugs him closer. “For everything, for all the – “  
   
“You’re the one in the Raft,” Tony mutters, thickly. “You didn’t have to do that, you stupid lug.”  
   
“Had to. Had to make it up somehow – “  
   
“Nothing to make up.”  
   
“I went with Bucky, I left you, you – suffered, hurt, tried to see the bigger picture but – failed, failed, failed.”  
   
“Hey,” Tony is laughing, pulling back, “me and Bucky are good pals now, right? I don’t mind, big guy. Right, Buck? We’re friends?”  
   
Bucky hangs around in the periphery. “Yeah,” he says, “friends. Good friends.”  
   
“And now,” Tony says, pressing a kiss to Steve’s knuckles, “that you’ve dropped kicked my husband, and Warren has given me the good smacking I need – “  
   
“That’s not funny. That’s bad, he hurt – you’re bruising. You need a – “  
   
“It’s hilarious. Wait till the news gets hold of it. One week left to go, you think Warren smashing in his omega’s skull and letting loose on the poor, innocent boy who tried to help him looks good? You’ve got to goad a guy like Warren; he’s smart, but thinks he’s smarter than he is.”  
   
“Of Ross,” one of the paramedics call, “if you’re coming, you need to come now.”  
   
“I should go,” Tony says dryly, “my dear alpha needs me.” He crosses his fingers. “Let’s hope this is it, my boys.”  
   
And then he’s gone, spun on his heel and disappeared in the rapidly fleeing crowd.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right
> 
> good news is, there's on more chapter of plot to wrap that side of things up. after that, it's just bucky, steve, n tony tryna figure themselves out
> 
> comments! please! love em! make me write faster! ok! thanks! 
> 
> seriously i love heaqring how u think the whole thing has played out
> 
> ask me on tumblr: www.writingromanoff.tumblr.com


	19. Chapter 19

Tony’s arm is in a sling.  
   
“Would you like something for the pain, Of Ross?” The kindly omega nurse asks him. She’s young. Tony likes to imagine life-stories when he’s stuck in a waiting room. She’s twenty-two, the baby of the family, which is why she was allowed to become a nurse. She’s from… Oklahoma, Tony decides. Moved to the big city where it’s more liberal and there are jobs for Os like her. She lives in a one-roomed apartment above a shop, barely making ends meet, but she likes that because her money is her own. Her family dotes on her, they’ll have had no problem giving her a license, maybe they top up her finances on the sly.  
   
The nurse is still talking. “What?” Tony asks, distractedly. “Sorry, I zoned out.”  
   
“Not to worry, Of Ross. It must have been stressful for you, in the hall.” The omega lowers her voice. “What that awful man did – they’re been playing the clip non-stop, that poor boy – and the way he kept asking for his baby!”  
   
“Tragic,” Tony says absently.  
   
“And the way you stood up for him – it’s so heroic, From Stark.”  
   
“Of course,” Tony agrees, distantly. “Anything for…” he trails off. “Is he okay? Can I see him?”  
   
The nurse nods. “He’s ready to see you.”  
   
“And? How is he?”  
   
The nurse frowns. “He’s – alive.”  
   
Tony could have figured, with his luck. “How alive is alive?”  
   
“Of Ross, the reason I’m standing here and not the doctor is because – he’s fine. Totally. I mean, he has some high blood pressure, so we’ll write him a script. But – “ the nurse frowns. “Are you sure that’s okay?”  
   
“Just a fracture,” Tony says quickly. Ross had – it’s hard to remember what happened, exactly. One second Ross had been holding his hand, the next he felt pain all the way to his shoulder. “I think it got wrenched on the way over.”  
   
“Really, I can get you some – “  
   
“It’s better to be clear-headed,” Tony says, standing. “I can just go in?”  
   
“You can.” The nurse looks like she wants to say something more. “I’m – very sorry,” she says.  
   
Tony frowns. “Why?”  
   
“Well – it’s just you must have really been looking forward to it. Being the Second Consort.”  
   
Tony throws back his head and laughs.  
   
   
Ross is lying up in bed, staring at the TV in the corner of the room. It’s Fox, but they keep playing that clip, the awful one with Nick holding out his hands, imploring people to help, begging for his baby, and Warren getting him to kneel before he slams the book on his head.  
   
“The doctor gave you the all clear.”  
   
Ross grunts.  
“The nurse said you’re – shockingly healthy.” _You fucker. Couldn’t you have just died?_  
   
“Good genetics,” Ross grunts.  
   
“Mmm.” Tony agrees, distantly. “I think your presidential dreams may be over.”  
   
Ross just stares at the ceiling. “Probably,” he agrees.  
   
Tony stands, brushes himself down. “You want something to eat?” He asks. “I’m gonna get a burger.”  
   
“Sure. Get me extra-large. With a shake, chocolate. Two portions of fries.”  
   
Tony does, and they eat in silence.  
   
“So,” Ross asks, wiping down his mouth with a napkin, “what are they saying?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “I think the fact no one’s been in touch to update you is pretty telling.”  
   
“Any polls?”  
   
“Not yet. We’ll need to give it a week.”  
   
Ross nods, slowly. “We’ll still have base support.”  
   
Shockingly, yes, there are still people who will support Warren after this. But…  
   
“But there’s no way we’re going to swing any middle-grounders. It’s not about the politics anymore, it’s about _him._ He looks unhinged.”  
   
“He is unhinged,” Tony says. “He was always unhinged. He sent men to rape me because we had a disagreement over dinner.”  
   
“No,” Ross says distractedly, eyes glued to the screen, “I did that.” His lips chase the straw of his milkshake. “Needed something to get Rogers on my side, back when that was an option. Pass those fries?”  
   
Tony decides he’s not surprised, and passes him the fries. “What would you have done?” He asks, genuinely interested. “If they’d actually raped me?”  
   
Ross shrugs. “They weren’t going to. They weren’t supposed to. But you went nuclear on them, they were only meant to rough you up a bit.”  
   
“I want a divorce,” Tony asks, calmly.  
   
“No.”  
   
Again, expected. “When you lose, what happens then?”  
   
“You continue to live in my house. I might send you away,” Ross shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet.”  
   
A beat. “If we divorce, I’m taking John in the settlement.”  
   
Ross shoots him an irritated glare. “Like hell you will. The man is invaluable.”  
   
“He doesn’t like you. He’s been covering for me the whole time.” Tony almost admits, _he helped me buy birth control,_ but he doesn’t want to risk a broken neck.  
   
“What happened to your arm?” Ross asks suddenly, as if noticing for the first time. “Did Warren do that?”  
   
“No. You broke my hand.”  
   
Ross looks at him sharply. “Are you sure?”  
   
“I’m sure,” Tony responds, calm. He continues to hold Ross’s gaze until he looks away.  
   
“Well I was going to ask you to drive,” he grumbles. “I suppose we’ll have to call John.”  
   
“We will.” Tony agrees.  
   
“So you’re coming home with me then?” Ross asks, pretending to be casual but failing. “You’re not going to disappear off into the night?”  
   
“I’m not giving you a single thing to use against me in the divorce. I am a model wife, Thaddeus.”  
   
“You slept with another man.”  
   
“Semantics.”  
   
“I could send you away,” Ross says suddenly, viciously. “I could send you to a facility. I’d ask them to – wreck you. Beat you, make you sick, shave you fucking bald until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your head down. I could make them utterly break you, Stark.”  
   
“You already tried that,” Tony says quietly. “It didn’t work. I think you’d be better off saving your cash.”  
   
“Would you stop?!” Ross explodes. “Would you stop being so – so damn calm? You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?  
   
“Thaddeus,” Tony frowns, “you locked me in a room for two months. You tried to have me raped to further your political career. You pledged away my child to further your political career. You married me against my will to further your political career. Sweetheart, of course I’m happy to see your pain. I despise you.”  
   
Ross looks away. “You don’t mean that.”  
   
“Yes,” Tony says bluntly, “I do.”  
   
“You’re such a – a manipulative little bitch, you know that?”  
   
“I really don’t care what you think.”  
   
“Do you want me to hit you?” Ross threatens wildly. The last punches of a man heading for a KO, uncoordinated and sloppy. “I’ll hit you. I’ll beat you so hard you’re pissing blood for weeks.”  
   
“Go ahead.”  
   
“I have nothing to lose, Tony,” he spits fiercely, “you’d do well to remember that.”  
   
“Oh, you’re not quite there yet,” Tony says benevolently. “You still have plenty to lose. Don’t worry, I’ll help you get there.”  
   
Ross reaches, sharp, and grabs him by the collar of his shirt, fisted in his hand. “Do you want the room again, Stark? Is that what you want? Because I can do that, it can be arranged. Two months, how does it sound?”  
   
“You could,” Tony says tiredly. “I can’t stop you, I’m your property. But obviously, there’ll be a lot of eyes on me in the coming days. Probably people requesting interviews. Maybe it’s in your best interest not to leave me bruised.”  
   
“You won’t be giving any interviews.”  
   
“Steve then. Bucky. Natasha. They’ll talk for me. You can’t stop them.”  
   
And so Ross knows when he’s lost a battle. “Keep your mouth shut,” he relents, “keep your head down.”  
   
Tony tears his eyes back to the TV screen. They have commentators sitting in a row, talking about where Warren goes next, and was the clip really that bad? Nowhere and ‘yes’ seem to be the consensus opinions. “How’s your chest?” Tony asks conversationally, putting his feet up on the bed.  
   
“Fine,” Ross snaps, sulking.  
   
“You were kicked by Steve. Not even a few broken bones?”  
   
“I – was wearing a vest,” Ross lies lamely.  
   
“No you weren’t.”  
   
Little pieces of a puzzle coming together. Ross is so freakishly strong for an old man, stronger than Tony. And he’s so _spritely_ for a guy that’s had two heart attacks, even after the first, irritatingly virile.  
   
“You broke my hand,” Tony says calmly. “You’re an old man. How does an old man like you break my hand?”  
   
“I’m stronger than I look.”  
   
“No shit,” Tony says, then pauses. “You _are_ strong,” he adds.  
   
“What of it?” Ross grunts.  
   
“I don’t know. There’s just something very – “ Tony turns to him, licks his bottom lip. “Never mind.”  
   
Ross frowns. “Never mind what?” He says. “Cat got your tongue?”  
   
Tony shrugs. “There’s just something very – appealing, about that. You know. Big strong alpha. I don’t know. I’m probably still drunk from the gala,” he laughs, like he’s a stupid, insipid boy.  
   
“You like that?” Ross says, gruffly. “I mean – you like me?”  
   
“Well, not usually, but – “ Tony sighs, tips back his head. “Maybe I’m having a half-heat. I don’t know, I just feel so…”  
   
“What are you doing?” Ross asks, flatly.  
   
“What am I doing?” Tony unzips his fly and pushes off his pants with one hand. “I’m giving you what you’ve always wanted, big boy.”  
   
Ross’s eyes narrow. “Stop it,” he warns. “Tony this behaviour is – unacceptable. You have completely lost your mind – “  
   
“Not at all. Just doing my duty by my alpha,” Tony simpers, clambering on to the bed, naked from the waist down. “You always said I didn’t put out enough.”  
   
“At home, in _bed,_ not in a fucking hospital – hospital – “  
   
“There,” Tony says with quiet satisfaction, “that feels good, doesn’t it baby?” He has Ross in hand, stroking slighting, positioning himself. He goes down in one, and Ross’s breath hitches; his hands grip the sheets.  
   
“I hate this,” Tony says conversationally. “I know you like to think there’s a bit of give and take here, but there really isn’t. I get zero satisfaction out of doing this.”  
   
“Then why are you – “ Ross grunts, and his hips snap to meet Tony’s. His hands tighten on Tony’s waist. “Why are you doing this, huh?”  
   
Tony shrugs. “I hate having your fingers in my mouth.”  
   
Ross grins, panting. “You love it.”  
   
“I don’t.”  
   
“You do. All those things you say you don’t like – I know you like them, really. You can’t take back your own words, Tony. I know all about you now. We share that. Like – “  
   
Tony tightens, slows, and Ross groans. “Like what?” Tony asks, innocently. Maybe he’ll finish quicker if Tony says the words.  
   
“Like – like ‘please alpha,” Ross mocks.  
   
“Please alpha? Is that what I say, hmm?”  
   
“Fuck me, alpha. I’m your bitch to be bred, alpha.”  
   
“You know, it’s strange you take common heat sayings as evidence of your raw potency.”  
   
Ross snarls. “You love it,” he tells him, “when I pull your hair – “  
   
“When I have hair to pull, you mean. When Warren hasn’t shaved it off.” Tony really shouldn’t antagonise him too much.  
   
“When I slap your ass, when I put my fingers in your mouth – “  
   
“I really, really hate that,” Tony reminds him.  
   
“You love it _all –_ “ and Ross dissolves into a groan pistoning his hips to push harder inside Tony. “You deny it. That’s why I wanted you, you know,” he pants, “other than the money, and the company, and the tools, and the suits. I wanted to – to bring you down, Tony. I wanted to make you see what you really were – “  
   
“And what’s that?” Tony dead-pans.  
   
“A bitch. A bitch who needs a strong hand to take care of them, instead of pretending to be some kind of _alpha_ in a metal suit – “  
   
“Well, you may be right about that. I’m not sure you’re the alpha to do it, though.”  
   
Ross is fucking him, now. Tony doesn’t have to do anymore work. _This is the last time,_ Tony swears. After this, he’ll never have him inside him again.  
   
“Oh, Tony,” Ross grunts, “you really are – a fucking good lay.” His grip is brutal. Unrelenting. Tony acquiesces; he makes all the right noises to help Ross along.  
   
“Wait,” he says, “wait, Thadd – wait.”  
   
“What is it?” Ross is blinking. “You want to stop now? I’m almost – “  
   
Tony is panting, shaking his head. “No, I – hold on. Let me.” He lays himself flat, arms bracketing Ross’ head; oh, he doesn’t like that. His brow furrows, his scent goes confused, confrontational. Alphas like Ross have hindbrains that just rankle at the thought of an omega on top. “What are you doing?” He frowns. “Why are you doing this?”  
   
“Can’t an omega just – want their alpha once in a while?” Tony clenches down, drags up, Ross’s eyes roll back in his head.  
   
“Sure,” he manages, clamping his hands around Tony’s waist, “but you’re not – ugh, any omega. And you _hate_ eye contact.”  
   
“Only with you.”  
   
“What – what did you just say?!”  
   
“Watching you at the gala – the way you went after Warren…” Tony runs a hand through Ross’s dry, grey hair. “Maybe it just makes me hot for you.”  
   
Ross will allow himself to think that, because for some reason – and Tony doesn’t know why – he has a blind spot when it comes to Tony. He’ll want to allow himself to think that maybe it could be the case.  
   
He stares at him down; fuck, he hates eye contact. He lets Ross piston inside him, fast, faster. When it happens, Tony sees it, in all it’s undeniable glory: Ross’s pupils expand, and redden. He’s seen that before. There’s only one person in the world who has eyes that do that.  
   
Tony halts, holds Ross’s face still by the chin. “Fucking hell,” he breathes, “I knew it. God, you idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot.”  
   
Ross snarls and bats him away. “What?” He snaps, “What’s got you – “  
   
“What is it?” Tony asks, narrowing his eyes, staring into Ross’s pupils. They’re going grey again, slowly. But still, _how?_ Why? “Serum? Is it gamma? Fucking hell, if you’ve been radiating yourself – “  
   
Ross is scrambling up. “I’ve done nothing of the sort, I have no idea – “  
   
“Oh please,” Tony scoffs, “your eyes are red. Steve kicked you in the chest and you walked it off like nothing. I’ve _felt_ you, the way you’ve held me – pushed me, fucking _manhandled_ me, you shouldn’t be able to do. You had a heart attack,” Tony remembers now, all the pieces coming together, “you told me that, years ago, and yet – here you are, still ticking, fitter than you’ve ever been and not showing any signs of slowing down. _Fuck,”_ Tony realises, slapping his head, over and over, “the pills! Of course you were fucking drugging me, you _knew_ I’d notice any other way, which means… maybe this development is recent, right? Maybe, before, it was just health, strength, but now it’s _changing_ you – “  
   
“It’s not _changing me,”_ Ross spits, “it’s making me stronger, there’s nothing wrong – “  
   
“You admit it?! You _admit it?!_ You fucking idiot, how could I ever have married such a fucking – “  
   
Ross grabs his wrist, pulls him forward. “Do _not,”_ he hisses, “speak to me in that manner, do you understand? I am your _alpha,_ I deserve respect. After I put myself on the line for you, stopped Warren from _touching you_ when you were too pathetic to do anything but cry about it, after I stopped him from beating you bloody in front of the whole crowd, all you have to do is thank me you _ungrateful bitch.”_  
   
“Thank you,” Tony sneers, “thank you, for being such a good, strong alpha, who takes care of me, shows me what’s right – “  
   
“Watch your mouth.” Ross’s hand is clamped so tight it’s bruising.  
   
“You don’t understand what you’ve done,” Tony scoffs. “You can’t even begin to understand. This starts and ends with you in the Raft, Ross. You imbecile, what have you _done_ to yourself – “  
   
“I’ve given myself _life._ I’ve given myself – bah,” Ross spits, “Rogers, Banner, Thor, Barnes. They all think they’re special, well everything they have can be manufactured in a bottle, and now _I_ have it too.”  
   
“And you’ll turn yourself in? You’ll register? Sign the Accords, like a good little boy?”  
   
Ross draws himself to his full height. “I’m not like them.”  
   
Tony can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Not like them? Not _like_ them? Damn fucking right you’re not like them, you could _never_ be Steve, or James, or any of – “  
   
Ross pushes him against the wall, and braces him with his forearm across his neck. “Don’t fight me,” he says, calmly, using his other hand to hold Tony’s wrists, tightening uncomfortably around his fractured hand. “I don’t want to fight you, Tony. Not after that lovely fuck you just gave me, hmm? Why don’t you just – settle. That’s it. Good boy.”  
   
He slides his arm across Tony’s shoulders, brushes the back of his neck. _Oh,_ Tony thinks, distantly. Heavy pressure. Ross is talking. It’s funny, all these months, this _year,_ all this time they’ve been together, and Ross has never really reminded him of Obie, not till – not till right this second.  
   
“Now,” Ross is saying, “you listen to me. Barnes, Rogers – what they have isn’t special. They got lucky, got to be in the right place at the right time, and now they can lift cars with their pinky, good for them. What I have? It isn’t special either. I just know the right people. You, though? Tony, you are a _genius._ More than that, you’re a genius _omega._ Hypothetically – imagine what you could create? I don’t mean with your hands,” and Ross slides his free palm down Tony’s chest, rests it on his belly, “but in _here.”_  
   
Tony smells cigar smoke. He wants to cough.  
   
“I should have told you,” Ross concedes. “At the start, it was all so new, and then when I started getting the injections… well, I didn’t think you’d be receptive. But you see, I can protect you, don’t you? You understand that you don’t need Rogers, and you don’t need suits. Not when you have me.”  
   
Tony tries to gather up his thoughts. “They’ll take you,” he croaks. “They’ll cut you up, experiment on you. You don’t understand what you’ve done.”  
   
“Your concern is touching, but I think I’ll be okay.”  
   
“You’re,” it’s hard to think past the lassitude, “not going to win the election,” Tony manages. “What then?”  
   
Ross shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll give me children, they’ll be the best of both of us.”  
   
His hand is so clammy on Tony’s belly. It slips under his shirt and strokes, like it’s allowed to, like it just _has a right._ “You don’t understand,” Tony tries, one last time. “Being super-powered – it isn’t _good._ They’ll hurt you. I can help.”  
   
Ross freezes. “Help?” He asks. “How could you help me?”  
   
“Get rid of it. Or try. I had – ideas, for Bruce. We used to talk about it. Could maybe fix you – “  
   
“I am fixed.”  
   
“You’re not. You’ve changed yourself, too much too fast, not stable. I can help.”  
   
Ross pulls his arm round Tony’s neck till he has him in a chokehold, like a snake. He’s gripping his chin, lips by his ear, one hand on his belly. “Don’t presume, Tony,” he breathes. “Don’t presume to offer _me_ help. I give you help, not the other way around, you understand? This isn’t a partnership.”  
   
Tony feels sick in the back of his throat. He jerks, trying to get away like an animal in a trap, but Ross’s arms are like steel bands. “Is that why you fucked me?” He asks. “You and your little experiments, Tony. Really wanted to get my heart racing, I guess, close quarters, perfect conditions. If I knew that’s all it took to get you to put out…”  
   
“Let go of me.”  
   
“It’s not fair, is it Tony? To be smarter than everyone in the room but then, for me, the big stupid alpha to just… take it all away, with one touch to the back of your neck. I can make you stupider than an infant just by touching you _here.”_  
   
Tony wriggles, elbows him in the gut. “Stop,” he swears, “ _stop it.”_  
   
“Oh and just look at you, suddenly you’ve got your bite back. That’s good, it’s good, because I was getting so bored of fucking a plank of wood –  
   
Ross’s grip lessens, or maybe Tony catches him by surprises, because he pushes forward and falls into air, frees himself of Ross’s grip and stumbles against the bed. “Stop it,” he says again, hand gripping the back of his neck like he can scratch away Ross’s touch. “Don’t _do that._ I hate that, I _hate_ it.”  
   
“Tony, I have nothing to hide now. You would do well not to push me. I’m stronger than you. I’m stronger than any of you.” Ross looks him up and down. “Put your pants on, we’re leaving.”  
   
“I’m not leaving with you.”  
   
Ross snorts. “Yes, you are. You’re in fine form, Tony. That little stunt at the gala, your little afternoon delight, you’re fine. Congratulations, you made me lose the election, you threw a spanner in my plan, are you happy?”  
   
Tony is still a little… woozy. “I’m not leaving with you,” he says, pushing his legs into his pants. “I’m going home.”  
   
“Yeah, with me.”  
   
“I’m not – you’re dangerous. It’s dangerous to be around you.”  
   
Ross scoffs. “ _Me?_ Tony, you used to spend hours with Bruce Banner, and you think I’m dangerous?”  
   
“He could control it. Kind of. He knew what to expect, you’re like a ticking bomb – “  
   
“Don’t over-exaggerate. I’m a little stronger than I used to be.”  
   
“ – who doesn’t know their strength. Anything could happen, your eyes were red, I saw it, I’m not leaving – “ he flaps, shakes Ross’s grip. “I’m not leaving with you, I’m not.”  
   
“Funny, you always seem to think you have a choice.”  
   
“Don’t be pathetic,” Tony snarls. “Leave me alone.”  
   
“I’m not pathetic. I’m stronger and faster than any of those alphas you chase around with your tongue out and legs spread – “  
   
“You _are_ pathetic,” Tony spits, like a bile, hot from his belly. “You are a lonely, sad old man, who hitches himself to the first wagon he can find to keep a grasp on any, paltry power, even if it means bending and taking it from America’s most famous nutjob – “  
   
“There are some things you do not understand, boy – “  
   
“Who couldn’t _find_ an omega to marry him,” Tony snarls, “so had me fucking kidnapped and walked down the aisle in cuffs, who’s so pathetic his own _daughter_ no longer speaks to him – “  
   
“That is – complicated, you’re simplifying things and you know it – “  
   
“ -- whose wife was probably grateful the cancer took her so she wouldn’t have to spend a second longer in your – “  
   
He hits him. For the first time, he hits him, strikes him, straight across the face. He hadn’t been lying; he _is_ stronger than he used to be, impossibly strong. It sends Tony spiralling, spinning, and he loses balance, falling back against a cabinet.  
   
Glass breaks. He catches his bad hand beneath him, and it hurts. Woozy, he realises he’s lying on his front, sharp shards digging into the side of his face where Ross had hit him.  
   
There’s a metal bowl, rolled on the ground, just in his vision, and a pack of empty syringes scattered by his fingers. Silently, he scrapes himself forward, and hides it in the waistband of his pants.  
   
“Look – look what you made me do,” Ross says, but there’s no bite to it. “You – I – “  
   
“You hit me,” Tony says, more surprised than anything. He’s had plenty of opportunity; it’s not like this is the first time Tony has provoked him. “You hit me.”  
   
He probes the side of his face, groans. His fingers come back bloody, and he can feel the skin around his eye swelling, tight and hot. He blinks, and finds he can no longer open it, glued shut with the blood and inflammation.  
   
“Get up,” Ross says, roughly, but offering a hand. “Just – we can sort this out at home. I’ll – I’m sorry. That was uncalled for, I – I’ll make it up to you. Just get up, get up we need to go.”  
   
“You finally – hit me,” Tony says, letting Ross wrench him up and brush him down. “After all of that? I mean, I knew you were a psychotic – “  
   
“Shut up,” Ross grumbles, steering him away, hand clamped on his arm.  
   
Tony giggles, hysterical. “You – you hit me!” He laughs, and Ross just keeps his head down, speeds up his pace. A few nurses look up, concerned, but he waves them away.  
   
“You locked me in a room, you – stole my belongings, and forced me into your bed, you… you got some lunatic to drug me out of my mind and let your cronies molest me, and now – after all that – _this_ is your hard line? Smacking me in the face? _This_ is what makes you think, ‘oh, I went too far’…”  
   
Ross pushes him out a set of fire doors. John must have brought the car round the avoid the reporters, but he’s not there now. “Get in,” Ross says, throwing him in the back.  
   
“What about John?”  
   
“John’s a big boy, he can make his own way home.”  
   
Good. Fine. It’s better that way, less collateral. Tony wants to get as far from the hospital as possible; the house would be better, but there’s every chance that once Ross gets him there he’ll lock him up, and that’ll be it.  
   
“Where are you taking me?” Tony asks.  
   
“Home,” Ross tells him shortly, putting his foot on the gas.  
   
“Slow down,” Tony warns, “you’re going too fast.”  
   
“Yeah well I’m in a rush.”  
   
They spill out onto the lone country roads, the maze of fields and lanes. Ross doesn’t slow. “I can help you,” Tony says again. “If you stop the car, right now, I promise I’ll help you. I’ll get rid of it. I won’t even tell anyone.”  
   
“Why would I want rid of it?” Ross asks, and he meets Tony’s eyes in the mirror. “You’re scared of me now, aren’t you?”  
   
“I don’t think you’re acting rationally.”  
   
“I’m acting _fine._ In fact, I have sense for the first time in a long time.”  
   
“You don’t. You hit me. All these months and you’ve never hit me – “  
   
“And?”  
   
“You’re violent. I know how this ends. Ross, _please._ This doesn’t end well, unless you stop the car and – “  
   
Ross swerves around a corner, dangerously fast, irrational. _Fucking hell,_ Tony thinks, _I didn’t come this far to be killed by a wooden fence._  
  
“Shut up,” Ross says, brutally short. Tony shakes his head.  
   
“Please,” he says, quietly. “I don’t want to – this will end badly for everyone. Just stop the car, let me call Steve – “  
   
Wrong thing to say. Ross’s eyes redden in the rearview mirror. “Do _NOT,”_ he snarls, “do _not_ mention his name, as if I’m some kind of fool. As if he’d let me go without slitting my throat – “  
   
“He isn’t you.” Tony’s heart is pounding; Ross wrenches the wheel, and they’re driving down the wrong side of the fucking road. It has to be now. Any closer and they’ll be near the highway, and then that’s collateral. “Please,” Tony begs, one last time, “just stop the car.”  
   
“ _Shut. Up. Stark.”_  
   
Fucking hell, he’s making him do this. He’s really going to do this. He carefully slips the syringe out of his waistband, pulse thudding in his ears. He might die. There’s no saying how Ross’ll react. Maybe the serum, or whatever it is he’s got in him, won’t be up to the task; it’ll just let him choke, and slip away. Maybe, like Bruce, it’ll trigger a transformation. Either way, this car is getting totalled, and Tony doesn’t want to be a part of it.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Tony tells him, honestly, reaching forward and slamming the sharp tip into his jugular. He pumps air into his vein, releases the syringe; he stays long enough to hear Ross choke, to feel him lose control of the wheel, but then he has the back door open. The car has slowed some; _tuck and roll,_ Tony thinks.  
   
He jumps. His shoulder takes the impact, his ankle wrenches. He’s rolling, rolling, rolling, broken bones and shredded skin. He comes to a stop some way down the road, Ross’s car still going, going, going.  
   
He lies there, only one eye functioning, blood from a cut on his temple getting in the way. _Urgent medical attention,_ he thinks, blearily. He starts to fade, and then he hears the roar. Thaddeus Ross is big, red, and angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i promise. from here on out: all snuggles, hurt is finished
> 
> comments!


	20. Chapter 20

He wakes up, and it’s warm.  
   
_Fingers,_ he thinks, testing. _Toes._ Ouch ouch ouch. Everything’s where it should be, but everything hurts. A steady beeping. His neck is trapped in a brace. His hand is in a new cast. There’s a big fat bandage over the left side of his face.  
   
He suspects that it’s late. He slits one eye open; a hospital. He’s safe. He made it. There’s a TV in the corner, playing on mute; they’re counting votes, two chirpy commentators. Huh? How long was he out? The election – that’s not for another nine days, there’s no way…  
   
Someone else is in his room. Snoring lightly. _Bucky,_ Tony thinks. Keeping his end of the bargain, watching over him, protecting. He turns his head.  
   
Steve.  
   
Hands folded over his belly, like he used to do when he was taking a nap. There’s a change of his clothes slung over a chair; he’s been here a while. Tony’s nose is blocked, nasally and stuffy. Maybe he broke it in the crash. He can’t scent anything but cotton and sterile bandage, but he bets if he could, he’d smell both of them, Bucky and Steve.  
   
He’s lost weight, his poor Captain, his poor Steve. He’s never seen him look so gaunt, cheeks sunken and shoulders slim.  
   
_You’re safe,_ the machines tell him as he smooths back down into sleep, _they’re watching you._  
  
_You’re safe._  
   
   
This time, when he wakes up, he’s somewhere else.  
   
He’s on the floor. Wooden. A rug, plush, ottoman, dusty under his fingers. He coughs. There’s sunlight streaming through a crack in the boards that cover the window and –  
   
No.  
   
_No._  
   
He tries to prise them free. “Let me out!” He screams. “Let me go! Let me out, let me fucking out!”  
   
They don’t crack. He throws himself at the door, over and over, but it doesn’t move an inch. He’s trapped here, locked in this room, by Ross, by Warren, by any of them. He’ll never see sunlight again, he’ll grow old in here, they’ll never let him out, not after what he’s done, he needs out, to get out, let him out, let him _out –_  
   
For half a second, after he wakes up, he doesn’t realise it was a dream. The panic follows him, chases him to consciousness, and then he feels –  
   
God, _relief_. It’s morning, and someone has pulled up the blinds. Warm sunlight streaming through, splayed across the bed. Steve’s chair is empty, but he can smell him lingering, and he can hear the chatter of nurses and doctors and patients past his door. He isn’t tied down, and he’s so, so free.  
   
Bleary, he tries to pick up his head; _ouch._ His neck is… ow. His whole body is ow, he’s a walking hurt. Arm in a sling, broken nose, God, his _leg,_ he’s done _something_ to his neck, and he’s covered in road rash, cuts and scrapes and bruises. He got off lightly, all things considered. He could have ended up road-kill, or worse, pummelled to death by big red fists –  
   
“You’re awake,” Steve says, tiredly. “You know where you’re at?”  
   
Tony tries to smile, to say _Steve!,_ but his throat is blocked, choked. “Steve,” he manages, croaking. “I – what happened? Did Ross – is he – “  
   
Steve winces, places his coffee on Tony’s bedside table. Someone has left him flowers, lots of them, plus a bundle of cards and ‘get well soons’. “He’s, uh. Interred. The important thing is, we got him, and we stopped him, and no one was hurt, and – you’re safe,” Steve adds, softly. “And no one is going to make you go anywhere, not now.”  
   
Tony smiles, manages it this time, wobbly, and Steve presses a kiss to his good hand. “That’s nice,” he whispers, weakly, and lets Steve gently massage his palm.  
   
“Warren lost,” he tells him, lips twitching like they want to grin, “but you probably knew that.”  
   
“Yeah. Yeah, I – thought I should… let people see him. For what he really was.”  
   
“That was dangerous,” Steve sighs, “almost as dangerous letting lose a hulk in a car while you’re in the backseat, but – “ his finger digs, maybe a little too hard, a twitch, spasm “ – but it doesn’t matter. Because you’re fine.”  
   
“Ish. Fine-ish. I feel like – I’ve been sat on.”  
   
Steve snorts. He smells happy, relax and loose; he folds his arms on Tony’s bed and rests his head there, peaceful. Tony folds his good hand through the short, cropped hairs at the base of his neck, sits there, slightly high, smoothing his thumb across his alpha’s nape.  
   
It feels good. He feels good.  
   
“I,” Steve starts, drowsily, head still hidden in his arm, “I wanted to say that I’ve – been bad.”  
   
“Hmm?” Tony asks, content to just lie there in silence, Steve’s soft hair under his fingers. “Bad how, baby?”  
   
Steve lifts his head. “To you. I’ve been bad.”  
   
Tony frowns. “No,” he begins, “you haven’t – “  
   
“This was wrong from the start. Bucky – we could have stayed, taken him in. Worked on it from the inside. I should never have gone to Wakanda. I should have been here – “  
   
“Steve,” Tony says tiredly, “we’ve been over this.”  
   
“No, I – “ Steve’s put his head back down, like he’s bowing, scraping, _pleading._ “I shouldn’t have gone. I should have married you, like I promised, I should – I should – “  
   
He’s so much slimmer than he used to be, the long months spent in the Raft have – affected him, more than they should. “Stop it,” Tony says, unnerved. He wants Steve to be strong for him. “Stop it, there was nothing you could do – “  
   
But Steve is crying, anyway. “I don’t deserve you,” he’s breathing, breath hitching, choking. “I – deserve this. You – Bucky – you both – “  
   
Tony freezes. “Me and Bucky – what?”  
   
“You – you – he was good to you, and kind for you, and _there,_ and I – “  
   
“Was in the Raft. Because you were trading yourself for me. Please, Steve – “  
   
Now he’s sobbing, hiding his face, twisting his fingers in the sheets. “I don’t deserve you,” he says again, “I deserve _this._ If you want him – I understand. I understand, Tony, you can have him, I – “  
   
“No,” Tony is saying shaking his head, “no, no, _stop,_ what are you saying? You think I’d – no! No, I don’t want him, not like I want you. I mean – “ Tony is tripping himself up in knots, “I don’t want – I want – “  
   
Bucky’s standing in the door. Tony wonders, how long? He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Tony’s too – hurt, to be dealing with this, to be doing this. “Help me,” he says, plaintively. “He doesn’t understand. I’m trying to make him understand – “  
   
“Here,” Bucky says, gruffly, taking Steve’s shoulders. “C’mon, man. He’s tired. Don’t upset him.”  
   
Tony’s heart rate is beeping out the monitor, panic, fluttered. “No,” Steve says, trying to push back, but he’s weaker, now. “He needs to know. I don’t – I won’t – you’re better together, the both of you – “  
   
Bucky shakes his head, pulls Steve – close. To his chest, makes him put his head in his throat, like how you would comfort a child. “No,” he says, quietly. “Not the both of us.”  
   
_Thank you,_ Tony thinks drowsily, _for saying what I was thinking._ He loves Steve, deep, with all his heart, but Bucky – Bucky understands him in a way Steve never could, without words, silent communication.  
   
Steve is sniffing into Bucky’s shirt, weak, limp. Tony has never seen him like this, Tony has never wanted to see him like this. _You’re supposed to be strong for me,_ he thinks selfishly. Why can no one ever just think of him first?  
   
He shakes himself out of it. “Steve,” he croaks. “Steve, baby, come here.”  
   
“Easy,” Bucky soothes, “easy, Steve. It’s alright. I know, you were locked up a while, it can do bad things to your head, but you’re gonna be alright, it’s all gonna be alright. Look, scent me,” Bucky urges, pressing his wrist to Steve’s nose. “You see that? I’m good. And Tony, he’s good too. And he loves you, he’s _yours._ We both are,” he adds. “Go and sit with him. Clear eyes, Stevie, don’t let the pretty omega see you cry.”  
   
“No,” Steve is rasping, and it – twists Tony up, breaks his heart, makes him agitate. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t _deserve_ him – “  
   
“And I do? I killed his parents, Stevie. I’m the reason you left him in the first place. And you – fine, you made a bad choice, brokered a bad deal, but you were doing it for me. If anyone doesn’t deserve – c’mon, Steve. Maybe both of us. He’s too good for both us, but – “  
   
“Jesus Christ,” Tony croaks, “could you both just – quit the fucking pity party? I was in a _car crash._ I’ve practically broken my neck. I could have died, and you’re both just – fingering yourselves       and crying. Could either of you give me some fucking attention, please? I just saved America! A freaking thank-you would be nice!”  
   
 Steve turns. “Tony, I – “  
   
“No! Stop it! Quit it! Just – stop!” Tony lets his head thump back against the pillows. “Both of you, fucking hell, just – come here. Now. Stop it.”  
   
A beat. “Both of us?” They croak, in unison.  
   
“Yes, both of you, just – “ Tony is exhausted. He shuts his eyes. “Just sit, please. I want…”  
   
“I’m sorry,” Steve is saying, “God, I’m such an – you’ve been thrown about and abused and I’m sitting, here, crying like a fucking – “  
   
“Just sit,” Tony says tiredly. “Baby, I’m not – I don’t know how to make it better. I’m not angry at you, I don’t blame you, I just _want_ you. Is that so hard?”  
   
“But you want him too,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to Tony’s knuckles. “It’s okay,” he says, hushed, “I know you do. It’s fine, I understand. You smell of him Tony, you both smell of each other.”  
   
“Steve,” Tony begins, weakly.  
   
“It’s alright,” Steve soothes, nodding. He smiles, watery, up at Bucky, who takes his seat on the other side of the bed. “I get it. It’s fine. You see in him what I see, too. Maybe – maybe it’ll all work out well in the end, huh?”  
   
That’s what Tony thinks privately, as Bucky lets more morphine drip into his veins. It all worked out well in the end. This needed to happen. It all needed to happen, just as it did, so Tony could sit here with Steve on one side, and Bucky on the other.  
   
   
It’s strange, how quickly they all pretend it didn’t happen.  
   
“Would you like ice chips, From Stark?” An alpha doctor asks, warm. She says, From Stark, not Of Ross, even though they’re still married. As if it was a blip, a mistake, and all the time Tony spent as a ghost behind a veil, a statue to be admired, an ornament decorating Ross’s arm, never happened at all.  
   
“No,” Tony says, distractedly, “no, I’m – fine. Thank you.”  
   
A nurse plumps his pillows, chatters about the president-elect. “He’s so handsome,” he says, “and he’s going to get rid of the license, he promised. Isn’t that great for you From Stark?”  
   
Tony doesn’t tell the kid, I’m not holding my breath, don’t rely on the promises of alphas. He smiles, nods. “Sure is,” he says, woodenly.  
   
Bucky is standing in the door again, like he always is, as if scared of entering; he’s a lover of impermanence, Bucky. He doesn’t like to commit, or rather, he feels more comfortable on the outskirts, because throwing himself in means rejection. “About yesterday,” he begins.  
   
“It’s fine. Where is he?”  
   
“I sent him home to wash up, take a rest. He’s – not well, and he’s been camping out since we scraped you off the road.”  
   
“Who found me?”  
   
“He did. Do you know the – pain it’s been, getting him to leave your side? He says he made that mistake once, won’t let it happen again.”  
   
Tony accepts that, looks at his hands. Well, his hand – one is still casted from where Ross broke it. “Has he ever been like that before?” He asks quietly. “I’ve never see him so – “ what’s the word? There are so many ways to describe it, but the only thing Tony can think is _sad._  
   
“I think the whole thing has taken a toll on him,” Bucky says. “He’ll bounce back. Always does.”  
   
“He’s a sunshine boy, our Steve,” Tony sighs. That’s why Tony loves him. He always sees hope, he’s always – good. “Has to be, to make up for the two of us.”  
   
“The two of us?” Bucky asks quietly.  
   
“Sure. You’re – Mr Brooding and I’m… one fucked up bitch,” Tony says, without humor.  
   
“But _us_ , though. Like we’re a pair.”  
   
“Aren’t we?” Tony asks, innocently.  
   
“Don’t you think this is something we should discuss?”  
   
“Why? It’s natural, isn’t it? That’s what Warren would say. Packs are the right way to live, the building blocks of a good, moral society. I’m the breeder, you’re the guardian, Steve’s the leader – “  
   
“Stop that,” Bucky snaps, “what, you’re hot on the biological, Darwinist freak-show now?”  
   
“No. I’m just saying. There’s nothing unnatural about what we’re doing.”  
   
“No, you’re missing the point. You still haven’t told me _what_ we’re doing.” Bucky’s voice goes softer, he steps into the room. “What do you want, Tony? What are you trying to say?”  
   
“I want you,” Tony says simply.  
   
“You want Steve,” Bucky corrects.  
   
“I want both of you. And – I don’t care if it makes me a hypocrite. I’ve changed my mind, packs are great, how about that? I just – I want to be happy, now. And I’m not going to deny myself – and I’m not going to deny Steve, or you – “  
   
“Deny us what?”  
   
Tony looks away. “You know,” he mumbles, “I know. We all know that you two are – that you’re – “  
   
“Tony,” Bucky says, sitting, “please. You know he loves you more than he could ever – “  
   
“Sure. Probably. But he does _love_ you, Bucky. Just like you love him. Just like I love him. And just like I love you. And – okay, that sounds complicated, but it doesn’t have to be, and there’s an easy solution, so why don’t we just – “  
   
“You love me?” Bucky asks.  
   
Tony turns. He swallows. “Sure. I was thinking – hoping – it might be mutual.”  
   
Bucky is shaking his head, fuck, why is he shaking his head? “You don’t love me,” he says softly. “You’ve just – imprinted. I was there for you when no one else was, I’m a physicality, that’s all. Don’t ruin what you have with Steve for – “  
   
“I’m not ruining anything, Jesus, Bucky. Don’t you get it? I’m – _enhancing_ it. Steve _loves_ you, I know he does. It makes him happy to have you, so it makes me happy too.”  
   
“I want you to love me for more than what makes Steve happy.”  
   
“And I _do._ I love you because you’re big, and broody, and you give great hugs, and you camped out in a tree for a couple months to make sure I was okay. I – never thought I’d like you,” Tony admits, “let alone – love you, but so much has changed. Baby,” he says softly, reaching out, “please. Don’t over complicate this. It’s simple. Love is love. That’s all. You’re happy, aren’t you?”  
   
“Happy?” Bucky – exhales, like it’s funny, “Sure, I’m happy. It’s not about whether – “  
   
“It is,” Tony says, simply. “Stop it, Bucky. There’s nothing to discuss. I want you, and I want Steve. And Steve wants you, and you want him. That’s all it is. You’re over-thinking. Steve isn’t over-thinking.”  
   
“Steve isn’t thinking at all,” Bucky says, darkly. “He’s – out of step.”  
   
“Then we’ll put him back in step,” Tony says, like it’s easily done. “The same way he put you back in step, the same way you fixed me.”  
   
“Tony,” Bucky starts, softly.  
   
“No. No, I don’t want to hear it anymore,” and he’s only half joking, “I’ve had a year from hell, I – just want a little bit of peace, James. Is that so much to fucking ask? No angst, or tears, just – just – “  
   
“It’s alright,” Bucky is saying, “I understand, I’m sorry.”  
   
But he doesn’t understand, Tony thinks. Steve doesn’t understand, either. Doesn’t matter that Bucky’s been raped and tortured, or that Steve’s been kept in a room just like Tony was, because it’s a different sort of pain. They’re not _omega._ They haven’t been hurt because of what they are; they’ve been hurt because of what they’ve done.  
   
Tony wishes, stupidly, that just for once, people could at least have the decency to hate him for things he can control.  
   
   
So, he takes stock.  
   
All working arms and legs. Two alphas who adore him. Warren, languishing somewhere with his bitter wife for company. Ross, buried underground in a prison he designed. It’s exactly what Tony wanted. He’s safe, he’s secure. He can wake up without anxiety wracking his body, without the sleepy grip of pills, or anti-depressants, or the knowledge that today, he’ll have to bend over a bed and be fucked like the bitch he –  
   
It’s not perfect.  
   
It’s just not.  
   
It never is. Steve is frazzled. While Tony was nursed back to health, Steve was having his own, private breakdown, in the raft. They have to be strong for each other. They’re all so broken. The three of them, they need –  
   
“From Stark,” a nurse is saying, quietly, repeating. “Your 2’oclock is here.”  
   
Tony blinks. “My what?” He croaks.  
   
“You had an appointment. With a specialist. About – you know,” she says delicately, “extra-human matters.”  
   
Hulk spunk, is what she wants to say. A hulk fucked you and came in you and his seed has splattered your insides, you’ve eaten his dirty DNA, taken him down your throat and swallowed it all.  
   
“Great,” Tony says, smiling tightly. “I take it I’ll be going to them.”  
   
He’s confined to the chair until further notice. With Bucky and Steve sent home for rest (they try to tag-team it, sometimes it doesn’t work out), the nurse has to push him, like he’s an invalid. She chatters away about the handsome president-elect, and her uncle who works in DC, not in government, just at a firm, but what’s the difference really? Tony ‘hmms’ and nods and tries to – clamp down what feels like sick forcing its way up his throat.  
   
They reach the examination room. The nurse knocks. “Come in,” the doctor says.  
   
It’s Betty. Ross. Betty Ross.  
   
“I’m your step-mother,” Tony blurts. It’s the very, gratuitously innapropirate thing, to come out his mouth. Betty sort of looks like him as if he’s an idiot, and then graciously says, ‘help him on the table’.  
   
“I’m sort of…” she sighs, “the specialist on Hulk related – things,” smiling tightly, snapping on gloves.  
   
“What are you looking for?” Tony asks, trying to act like this is just a normal, doctor-patient exchange.  
   
“Inflammation. Signs of gamma poisoning, or – something. Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.”  
   
Tony’s been told that often. “Okay,” he says uneasily, because Betty is cold towards him. “I – if this is awkward for you – “  
   
“It’s not awkward for me,” she says simply, laying a strip along Tony’s forehead and making a note of something. “Why would it be awkward?”  
   
“Because I – “  
   
“Married my father?”  
   
“Yeah. That.”  
   
“Really. It’s fine. I’m not – angry with you. I wish I could have helped in some way. If I had known – I would have made him stop. I know Bruce was always fond of you.”  
   
Was he? Tony had had a little crush on Bruce, the first time they met. He was beta, and it would never have worked, but – still. He was so clever, and kind. “I don’t think he would have listened.”  
   
“Maybe not. Still. I should have tried.”  
   
She continues in silence, drawing blood and laying strips on his skin. “Your neck,” she says, “what happened?”  
   
Tony doesn’t know. People have been hurting him there a lot recently. “Just – pinches. Warren got me at that gala, gave me a hard shake.”  
   
“I have numbing cream for that.”  
   
“That would be – amazing.”  
   
Betty nods. “I’ll get them to write you a prescription.” She makes a note of something, somewhere. “Have you eaten?”  
   
“No. Not allowed to eat for twelve – “  
   
“Before they sedate you. Lucky boy.”  
   
A brief silence as Betty makes her way around the room, makes a note of something on a pad. Quietly, Tony asks, “Have you been to see him?”  
   
Betty shakes her head. “I don’t know if I will.”  
   
“The Hulk thing’s a bit much for you, huh?”  
   
She frowns, busying herself with unpacking a syringe. “No,” she tells him, flatly, “I don’t care about that. People do stupid things for worse. Bruce – he did that, and I didn’t hate him for it.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
“Yeah. Despite all of that though, I never thought – he could do to someone what he did to you. Sorry,” she says awkwardly, and brushes down his arm with disinfectant. “This’ll pinch.”  
   
“What he did to me?” Tony asks.  
   
“He used to be a normal dad. He could be – irritable, sometimes, but mom always said that was because of ‘Nam, and I should ignore it. After she died – I don’t know. Maybe he went off the deep end, maybe he was always crazy. I never thought he was capable of – what he did,” she says flatly, “marrying _you._ Hurting you, hiding you, it – whatever.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says listlessly. “Whatever.”  
   
“I – sorry. You’re not my therapist. And imagine it, me going on like this when he hurt _you…_ ”  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony tells her. “Really. For what it’s worth, he wasn’t always cruel. He could be kind. I think – maybe he was lonely. I don’t know.”  
   
“And? I’m lonely. Lots of people are lonely. They don’t rape, beat, and try to murder their spouses.”  
   
“He didn’t do any of those things.”  
   
Betty frowns at him. “Stay still,” she warns, taking a swab from inside his ear and placing the bud into a plastic container. “Don’t be stockholmed, Stark.”  
   
“I’m not – I just think you should judge they guy by what he did, not made up – “  
   
“It’s fine. I’m not going to fight you.” She smiles, tight, bitter. “I’m going to need to ask you some personal questions. If there’s anything you don’t want to say, or if you’d rather have an omega – “  
   
“It’s fine.”  
   
“Great. When was the last time you had intercourse with my father?”  
   
Tony narrows his eyes. “Maybe – yeah. Maybe we can get someone else to ask the questions.”  
   
Betty shrugs, like it’s all the same to her. “Whatever you want.”  
   
Now, the nurse asks him the questions. When was the last time you slept with Ross? Was he rough with you? Did he come in you? Did he knot? How many times? Did you, uh, ingest any? Orally? And before that, during your heat. Again, sorry to ask, how many times?  
   
Tony’s memory is patchy in places. He tells the nurse, and then the doctor, that he was drugged, that the things Ross made him do and when are… foggy. The doctor nods sympathetically. “Well get it all noted down,” he says, “make sure it gets to the lawyers for trial.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Trial?” He asks, distracted.  
   
“Sure, sweetie. You know, the trial. They’re charging him with all kinds of things.”  
   
“Things – other than abuse of science?”  
   
“Yeah, sweetie. Abuse of you, too.”  
   
“Don’t call me sweetie,” Tony tells him, preoccupied. “They’re going to charge him for abusing me? On what grounds?”  
   
“Well, he’s not the alpha you thought you married. He was doing all kinds of bad things to himself. But I’m sure they’ll be in touch, swee – From Stark,” the doctor finishes. “Kate, do we have everything?”  
   
“That was everything,” she agrees.  
   
“Fine. Good. Let’s get Mr Stark back to bed, shall we?”  
   
“When will I find out? If there’s anything wrong?”  
   
“Best not to worry yourself,” the doctor dismisses. “Soon enough. But I’m sure you’ll be fine, From Stark. You’ve shown us you’re a hardy breed.”  
   
   
It’s not good enough for him. “I want to see him,” Tony says that night, scraping the last vestiges of a mcflurry into his mouth.  
   
Bucky and Steve share a look, as if to wordlessly decide between how best to tell him no. “You sure that’s a good idea?” Steve asks, forcedly casual.  
   
“No,” Tony admits. “More nuggets,” he demands.  
   
Bucky sighs and dutifully gives Tony the rest of his box. “So you get there,” he says, “you say – what? Hi? Make small talk?”  
   
“I’m kinda thinking I should ask for a divorce,” Tony says, chewing absently. “You know, because – he’s a psycho and all.”  
   
“You should,” Steve agrees, “or we could go for you.”  
   
“I don’t need a proxy.”  
   
“That’s not what I was suggesting. You’re still healing. You go now, he’ll upset you, you’ll get thrown off your – “  
   
“I saw Betty Ross today,” Tony interrupts, not wanting to hear all the reasons he’s weak and useless. “She tested me for hulk spunk.”  
   
They both wince. “What does that mean?” Bucky asks.  
   
“You know, like – in case I’m radioactive, or something. I’m sure I’m not. My hair would have started falling out by now, huh?”  
   
“Don’t joke about that,” Steve snaps. “You’re fine, we shouldn’t joke about – hair falling out, and – and – “  
   
“Spunk?” Bucky supplies.  
   
“Yes, thank you. About those things, we shouldn’t talk about them.”  
   
“Maybe I want to talk about them,” Tony says, forcefully casual. “They happened, didn’t they? No point denying them.”  
   
A brief silence. “If you want to see him, I’m not going to stop you,” Steve says, clearly unhappy. “I’m not him. I can only advise.”  
   
“We can’t ignore what happened, Steven. I can’t scrub away the touch of him, or the taste of him, any more than I can erase him from existence. He _is_ in the Raft, and I _am_ married to him, and – pretending it isn’t true won’t change it.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Steve says, “you don’t need to justify your choices. I won’t stop you.”  
   
“I know.” Still, it’s important to Tony that Steve understands, or at least gives him some form of approval. “I love you,” he says, holding out his good hand, “you know that, right?”  
   
Steve looks up from where he’s been picking at his fries, eyes soft. “I know that,” he says, quietly, squeezing Tony’s fingers.  
   
“And you,” Tony says, turning to Bucky. “You too. Other hand, please. Don’t squeeze too hard.”  
   
Bucky looks abashed to even be included. Steve smiles at him, strokes his thumb across Tony’s hand. “We’ll see what the tests say,” he says. “When you’re stronger, in a week or so, you go. We won’t stop you. We’ll be waiting when you do.”  
   
   
Tony is holding a cardboard box.  
   
The guards have to check it before he enters. The let him keep the cigars, but remove the lighter. They raise an eyebrow at the packed leftovers. “From Stark,” one says, “you know we won’t heat this up for him?”  
   
“I know,” Tony says cheerfully, and they let him through.  
   
Down. Deeper than Tony’s ever been. Ross had made him build a sanctum for Bruce, on the off-chance he ever turned himself in. It’s a long-stay facility, perfect for hulks who can’t seem to get a grip on their tics. Ross made it for Bruce, and now, it’s Ross’s home. Perfect. Tony loves it.  
   
He’s beeped through one set of sliding doors, then another, then another. A retinal scan, and hand print, a guard enters a code, then submits to the same procedure. Heavy, thick doors start to slide open, painfully slow. Behind them, a room with a glass wall, and his dear, sweet alpha.  
   
“Husband of mine!” He calls, shifting the box a little higher. “I’ve brought gifts. You can leave us,” he tells the guard, “just wait outside. I shouldn’t be too long.”  
   
The guard obliges, because people listen to him now. They just _listen,_ like he’s an authority. It’s nice. It bolsters him more, for what he’s about to say.  
   
“I thought,” Tony says, walking closer, “that since you’ll be here for a while, I might make it a bit homier. You know. Because you’re volatile.”  
   
Ross just studies him behind the glass. Orange is not his colour. Incidentally, neither is red.  
   
Tony puts the box on the floor. “Cigars,” he says. “You can’t smoke them, but – I don’t know, you can smell them, I guess.” He rests his hand on the glass and slots them through the hole that opens, lets them fall with a depressing clatter on the other side. “I bought some books, too – ‘ _On Liberty’,_ J.S Mill, that will keep you busy for about ten minutes. Oh, and _‘A Room of One’s Own’,_ just to get you into the whole omega liberation movement. I thought it was quite fitting, too, because – well, you know,” Tony says, apologetic but not apologetic, shrugging.  
   
“Also, _‘Freedom’,_ Johnathan Franzen. I know you don’t like recent stuff, but honestly it got me hooked and again,” Tony makes a sympathetic face, “I thought it might make you feel better.”  
   
Ross continues to glare.  
   
“The collar suits you,” Tony suggests. “It’s not as expensive as mine, obviously. But it suits you.”  
   
Nothing.  
   
“Okay, so you’re not super talkative. That’s fine.” He reaches down into the box and pulls out a photo. “This is a picture of the sky, in case you forget what it looks like,” he says earnestly, and he almost – almost – cracks a grin and ruins it. “There’s also some leftovers – I know you love my meat, right? They won’t heat them up, and the ride over was pretty hot so they might not smell great, but anyway, a little taste of home.”  
   
He slots it through the window happily. Ross wrinkles his nose.  
   
Tony sighs and straightens. “It must be hard,” he says conversationally, “locked in a room with no windows. No air. No knowing when you’ll ever make it out.”  
   
“You cheated on me,” Ross grunts. “You fucked another alpha and brought it home. I was justified.”  
   
“Justified?” Tony blurts. “You were – “ he reaches down and scrambles around the box, looking for the letter. “This,” he says, holding it up. “This is for you. It’s from your daughter.”  
   
Ross’s eyes widen. “Give it to me,” he orders, slamming a hand against the glass. “Give it to me, now.”  
   
“Why should I?” Tony snarls, suddenly unable of holding back. “You held _my_ letters from me. You _forced_ me to marry you. Why the fuck should I ever return the favour?”  
   
Ross bites his tongue. Literally, bites his actual tongue, shuts his eyes, and hangs his head. “Tony,” he says placating, looking up. “Please, give me the letter.”  
   
“I think I’ll keep it. Or just shred it. And that will make you so fucking mad, won’t it? Just – ballistic. And maybe then, when information has been kept from you and you’ve been – _stripped,_ and raped, and beaten, fucking someone else won’t seem so bad, you know? Because you’ve been lied to, and just – abused. And you’ll feel justified then. At least, until your alpha locks you in a dark room for weeks on end. You get light,” Tony says coldly, “you get three meals a day. You get books, and – and _internet,_ and fucking – fucking _conjugal rights._ That’s more than I ever got.”  
   
“Oh, are you here to fuck me?” Ross sneers. “That would be a first, you withholding little cun – don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare, give that to me, Tony. Stark, don’t you fucking dare rip that letter or I’ll – “  
   
Tony slots it through the window, and it flutters to the floor. “I’m giving you what you never gave me,” he says, quietly. “Because I’m soft, understand? That’s the only reason. Plus, I don’t think it’s going to be a good letter for you.”  
   
Ross is staring at him with a mixture of mistrust and hate. “I’m sorry I called you a cunt,” he says bluntly.  
   
“Fine.” Tony reaches down and picks up a bundle of pictures, bound with an elastic band. “For you.” He says. “I found them in your office.”  
   
Tony had never actually seen a picture of Ross’s wife until he saw the photos. She was short, brown hair, wide smile. Not in a bitchy way, she was 100% average looking, nothing spectacular about her at all. Little Betty is sweet. It’s a shame Ross had to go off the deep end.  
   
“Is this – what,” Ross scoffs, “you gloating?”  
   
“No,” Tony says, simply. “I just wish I had been allowed certain things when you had me. That’s all.”  
   
Ross is shaking his head. “What do you want?” He asks, eyes narrowed, suspicious. “What the hell do you want from me? I almost killed you. I almost killed your – _friends.”_ He swallows the word. “No one is this nice. I _know_ you, and I know you’re not this nice. You killed your last alpha, why are you being kind this time round?”  
   
Busted, kinda. Tony pulls out the forms and flattens them against the window. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I want a divorce.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Ross,” Tony says tiredly, “it’s going to happen anyway. It’ll take longer, but my lawyers reckon having an alpha inject himself with a ganky super-soldier serum and turn into a red monster violates the whole ‘care and protection, preserve and shelter, defend and guard’ thing. I _will_ extract myself from you eventually. Kellar is saying he’ll push legislation to grant omegas equal divorce rights anyway. It’s only a matter of time.”  
   
“Well, that’s fine then. When he pushes through the legislation, you can start the divorce proceedings. That’s, what, two years?” Ross smiles. “Two more years of wedded bliss. You’ll have to tell your friends to hold off on knocking you up.”  
   
“Is it your property you’re worried about? Because I own all of it now, you know that right? Well, about 90% of our finances are actually my finances. But I’m giving your portion to Betty, I don’t need it. You don’t need to worry about that.”  
   
“I’m not,” Ross says simply, and he reaches down to pick up one of the cigars, sniffs it. “I just want to make life difficult for you, Tony. I won’t go easy into the night. I will have my lawyers fight every amendment you propose. I will ask for everything you own. I will fucking ruin you, if that’s what it takes.”  
   
Tony sighs, heavy. “I can cure you,” he says, relenting. “I could cure you.”  
   
“Bullshit.”  
   
“No, not really. A few years back I perfected a strain of Extremis. It could retwrite your biology, if I wanted it to. It would get rid of your little red problem.”  
   
“You’re lying so – “  
   
“As it stands, you’re being held indefinitely because you are unstable. Unlike my good friend Bruce, you have zero control over your changes, they happen seemingly at random, and at any time. Because of this, you will just never be allowed out. You just won’t. You’re a risk.”  
   
“I don’t care. Even if you cure me, I’ll be a fucking prisoner. I have, what, 20 years left optimistically without the serum? Fine. My last 20 years will be spent penniless and hated. I don’t need that. I’m not going to give you that.”  
   
“20 years is a long time.”  
   
“Not really. Not when you’ve lived as long as me.”  
   
“In 20 years, your son will be grown-up.”  
   
Ross frowns. “What?”  
   
“Your son.”  
   
“I don’t follow.”  
   
And now, for the ultimate cosmic joke, the final fucking nail in the coffin. “I’m carrying. It’s yours.”  
   
Ross is staring at him. “You’re lying,” he says, desperately. “That’s a – a bare faced lie.”  
   
“It’s not,” Tony says, regretfully. He pulls out another whack of forms and presses them to the glass. “Doctor’s report. It’s yours, not that there was any doubt. I didn’t think it was possible, but after you went ape-shit they made me get tested. And it’s true.”  
   
“How – how do you know it’s a boy?”  
   
“I don’t, really. Call it a gut feeling.”  
   
Ross looks around his cell, as if there’s something there that can make this right. “It’s – let me see the papers,” he says. “Here? Is this the DNA test?”  
   
“Right there. I circled it in red.”  
   
Ross reads frantically, eyes scanning the page. He looks up. “Are you – are you well? I mean – how are you? You’re not… too bruised, right?”  
   
“I’m okay.”  
   
Ross nods. “Good, that’s good. And – do you get morning sickness? Is it bad? What about the cravings? I hope you’re giving into them, there’s no use not, especially since – strawberries, right? You liked strawberries.”  
   
“I have all the strawberries I could possibly need.” Tony pulls out a pen, clicks, and pushes the divorce documents through the window. “You need to sign on the appropriate dotted lines. Take your time, read it. I’ve included guardianship arrangements. You would be allowed three supervised hours every month.”  
   
“Three every two weeks.”  
   
“You turn into a red rage monster uncontrollably.”  
   
“That’s – yeah. Okay, that’s okay.”  
   
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” Tony says, watching him sign. “I thought I would keep it from you, soften the blow.”  
   
“You did the right thing,” Ross says, crossing a ‘T’. “I deserved to know.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “You did.” A few minutes pass in silence and then he takes back the papers. “My lawyers will be in touch.”  
   
“You’ll update me,” Ross demands. “You’ll tell me exactly how it’s progressing.”  
   
 “No,” Tony says quietly, “I won’t.”  
   
“Why not? I deserve to know! We just established, it’s mine, I deserve to know – “  
   
“Yeah, I’m not keeping it. I’m not allowed to keep it. Fuck knows what’s wrong with the poor little guy’s genes, but he’s not a normal baby. I’m having the procedure tomorrow.”  
   
“The procedure?”  
   
“Abortion,” Tony says shortly, filing away the documents inside his jacket. “Thank you, for cooperating.”  
   
“Wait,” Ross is blinking, “wait, wait so – there isn’t a baby?”  
   
“No, there’s a baby. The foetus isn’t viable because of whatever you’ve injected into your veins. It poses too great a risk to my health, and even if it didn’t, we don’t know what could come out. So, unfortunately, even the psychotics who run the Virginia abortion control committee agreed unanimously that it needed to go.”  
   
“You just – you _lied,”_ Ross snarls, throwing himself against the glass. “You _lied.”_  
   
“No,” Tony says, simply, “I just withheld the truth. You know all about that, don’t you?”  
   
“You petty fucking bitch, oh you stupid, deranged cunt, you can’t kill my _child_ because of some insignificant _vengeance,_ you nasty little – “  
   
“I didn’t kill the kid, you did, the second you decided to play God. This is on you. I’m not going to die so I can deliver a red baby with – with six arms, who rips me apart coming out. Catch yourself on, Ross. It’s done.”  
   
“Oh please,” Ross spits, “don’t give me that, as if you wouldn’t have flushed it out even if it was healthy. What you’ve done here is illegal, you made me sign on false pretences, I absolutely – “  
   
“Yeah, probably,” Tony agrees. “But I mean, you’re down here for life, and you can’t really afford a lawyer. So,” he shrugs, “I’ll take my chances, you know?”  
   
“Don’t you dare,” Ross says fiercely, slamming his palm against the glass. “Don’t you dare, Tony. Don’t you dare walk away from me, I swear to God I’ll fucking kill you. I swear to God I’ll – STARK! Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you – come here! Come back here! Get back here, right now! Stark! Stark! _Stark!”_  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pheewf. okay. 
> 
> almost coming up on a year of writing this now. would love to know your thoughts on how steve/bucky/tony shaping up, and also on ross. oh and how do ppl want this to end? bc i can go long-term with snuggling and aftermath, or i can start to wrap up?
> 
> anyway. thoughts!
> 
> questions/thoughts: [my tumblr](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)


	21. Chapter 21

“I’m sorry,” the beta doctor is saying, over and over. “I have to do this, always. It’s my job, they can sack me if I don’t – “  
   
“It’s alright,” Tony says absently. They’ve loaded him up with good things, all the best sedatives. Bucky and Steve aren’t allowed, because it’s not their baby, so Tony has to endure the doctor painstakingly pointing out his child’s head and limbs alone.  
   
“That’s – an arm, I think. And – oh, that’s another arm. And – and is that another arm? Okay, so – okay, four arms. Well… as you can see,” the doctor says, reading from the script she’s been given, “you have a beautiful child in your belly, to whom you would be a loving, nurturing mother. Are you sure you want to continue with the procedure?”  
   
“I’m sure.”  
   
“I have to point out that at twelve weeks, your child will feel pain, probably. And if you decide to continue killing it,” the doctor sighs, “it will weigh heavily on your conscience.”  
   
“Sure,” Tony says, “hey, do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”  
   
The doctor runs the monitor over his stomach once more. “It’s – I can’t tell. The limbs obscure – everything. I can’t tell if that’s a penis or another arm, I’m sorry.”  
   
“And – it wouldn’t live, anyway?”  
   
“Completely unviable, that’s correct From Stark.”  
   
Tony laughs. “Could you print this picture for me, please? I want to send it to my dear alpha – just so he has something to remember me by.”  
   
The beta looks at him like he’s slightly unstable. “That’s – are you sure?”  
   
“I’m sure,” Tony smiles. “Could you highlight the legs and arms, please? Just so he knows exactly what he did to my child.”  
   
The beta looks like she wants to say something more, but she doesn’t. “Okay,” she says, “if that’s your request, I’m sure I could help.”  
   
   
   
They knock him out for the procedure.  
   
They don’t have to; Tony requests it. He doesn’t want to remember it. He wants it to be blot in his memory, just like Ross, who is lying somewhere buried underground. Bucky is there, when they wheel him in, and then they tell him to count down from ten, and when he wakes up he’s lying pillowed by Steve and it’s like the whole thing never happened at all.  
   
He has a little plaque erected in the graveyard, next to his parents, and the first three children.  
   
   
They take him home.  
   
HQ has been abandoned for so long. Graffiti on the walls, grass up to your hip, wear and tear, boarded up windows. It’s not suitable, Steve had insisted, adamant. Tony is still healing, he needs somewhere clean and warm, HQ won’t do, it just _won’t._  
   
So they take him home, to his real home, the same home he grew up in, and then lived with Obie. Okay, it’s a little dusty; they need to send the cleaning crews ahead. Bucky asks, are you sure? He hurt you. You hated him.  
   
But Tony doesn’t see bad memories in this house, he sees – reclamation. He was hurt here, once. What will he do? Wallow in it? Shy away from it? That’s what Obie would want, what Ross would want. He won’t give them that satisfaction.  
   
He wants to rip it up, floorboard by floorboard, make it _his._ He has painters eradicate the sickly yellows and reds and thick carpets, has them open the whole place up, knock down walls and build again, reshaping the place to his liking. Bucky and Steve tolerate his nesting, even if it means the occasionally wake up and have to contend with sweaty alphas drinking coffee in their kitchen while Tony dictates plans and unrolls schematics. He thinks it makes them happy, secretly, even if they moan and drag their feet, because Tony is building something permanent; he’s accommodating them all, together, forever.  
   
This is so new to him, though. Sure, he knows what instinct tells him: he wants Bucky and Steve on either side of him, every night, warm and secure. But, there are practicalities. What if one of them is tired, or doesn’t want to wake him? And they all need their own space, somehow; as much as, right now, the idea of being covered in super-soldiers is appealing, when Tony isn’t so damaged, broken, and slightly manic, the concept might lose it’s sheen. Tony always has been fidgety.  
   
So he gives them both a room, and a nest for himself. And he tries not to think about their spare bedrooms, and what they can be used for, instead opting to paint them in neutral whites.  
   
The night the workmen leave, the three of them sit in their new kitchen, quietly eating Chinese take-out. They don’t need to talk. Still, there’s something hanging in the air; an awkwardness? Reality? After leaving the hospital, they were all so – fragile. And hopeful. And maybe Tony was trying to distract himself with the house, and different shades of curtain, but now…  
   
Do they really know what they’ve gotten themselves into?  
   
“The uh, FBI,” Steve says, scraping noodles with his chopsticks. “You see they’ve taken Warren’s lawyer into custody?”  
   
“Took their time,” Bucky adds.  
   
“Mmm,” Tony agrees. He thinks Steve was directing his statement at him. “Yeah. I mean – they’ll get him in the end.”  
   
“Right,” Steve agrees, “sure.” A beat. “I know you hate this, and you think it’s so – old fashioned. And I told them to talk directly to you – “  
   
“What?” Tony interrupts, shortly. Steve always needs to build these things up, like he’s afraid Tony will snap at him otherwise.  
   
“They got in touch. With me. And with Bucky, I think. They want permission to talk to you about what happened.”  
   
“Give evidence?”  
   
“We were all there that night. But you… you’re privy to more than that, right?”  
   
Tony can feel Warren’s hands on his waist, his breath in his ear. “Sure. Yeah, obviously I’ll talk.”  
   
Steve is worrying his lip. Yeesh, here they go again. “And you know – Tony, if you ever wanted to talk about it. I mean, talk about specifically – “  
   
“I think I’m okay, actually,” Tony says abruptly, standing. He chucks his carton in the trash. “Does anyone want these prawn toasts? I love prawn toast.”  
   
“Sorry,” Steve blurts, “I wasn’t trying to – “  
   
“I’m gonna go,” Bucky says, hastily. “Maybe you two should talk – “  
   
“Oh, what, you too?” Tony snaps. “You’re going to take his side?”  
   
“I just think maybe you two need some time alone. I’m going for a walk.”  
   
“Don’t you dare!” Tony warns. “Don’t you leave us here, you big – Bucky. Bucky, don’t you walk out that door, don’t you – “  
   
He walks out the door. Tony slams his prawn toast on the counter, and it scatters, little sesame seeds rolling all over their new hardwood floor. “Fucking hell,” he snarls, “why does no one ever listen to me? I always listen. I always listened.”  
   
Steve is quietly picking up empty cartons, putting glasses in the sink. Methodical, steady. He scents calm, which – makes Tony calm, slowly. He inhales, exhales shakily, and only then does Steve wrap his arms around his waist, rest his chin on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says, “we don’t have to talk.”  
   
“He shouldn’t do that,” Tony mumbles, “he shouldn’t leave, to let us talk. He’s as much a part of this as you.”  
   
“I know that. He does, too. I think he – recognises that we have more baggage to work through.”  
   
“Not true,” Tony lies.  
   
“Is true, and you know it.”  
   
“He should be here,” Tony mutters.  
   
“Do you want him here?” Steve asks, simply. “I can get him.”  
   
Tony thinks maybe that’s unfair. This has been a lot for Steve; Tony used to be his. And now, his friend…  
   
“You’re not jealous, are you?” Tony asks, twisting away. “Ever?”  
   
“No,” Steve says quietly, “never.”  
   
“But why not?”  
   
Steve shrugs. “I don’t know. Anyone else, sure, of course. But – Bucky is an extension of me, Tony. Or I’m an extension of him. There’s no one I trust more, there’s no one I care about more. Other than you.”  
   
“Smooth talker,” Tony mutters, but secretly swooning.  
   
“Yeah, well it’s true. D’you want to sit?”  
   
“I should tidy up.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, lightly, but with a firmness underneath. “You don’t have to do that here, remember? You’re not our slave.”  
   
“Right, but if I don’t do it they’ll just sit and fester, and the sink is brand new – “  
   
“I’ll do it tomorrow. Relax. The cups will be washed.”  
   
It’ll irk him if they’re not done, but Steve seems earnest enough. “Is he okay?” Tony asks, throwing away the last of the trash. “You know he wouldn’t tell me if he wasn’t.”  
   
“Doing good,” Steve confirms. “Happy you’re home.”  
   
“And you?” Tony asks, more guardedly, washing his hands under the sink. “Are you okay?”  
   
Maybe, there’s a brief pause, that lasts too long to be natural. “Sure,” Steve says, “you ever known me not to be?”  
   
Tony turns, smiles at him. “Wine?” He asks.  
   
“Don’t mind if I do.”  
   
He pours two generous servings; they toast. “To us,” Steve says, “to you.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony agrees, sipping. “To me.”  
   
He’s embarrassed by his outburst. His partners are allowed to worry about him; it’s not unreasonable for them to want him to talk. The wine is making him warm and fuzzy, all the way down to his toes, and Steve’s scent makes him want to curl up in a ball. Actually, it kinda makes him want to –  
   
He twists his hips slightly, lifts his chin so he can kiss Steve’s lips. If his alpha is surprised, he doesn’t let on, just lets him deepen it, and deepen it, until his wine is forgotten and his arms are wrapped around Steve’s neck. Tony pulls back, sighs; “is that nice?” He asks.  
   
“What kind of question is that?” Steve murmurs, taking back his mouth, not letting him answer. When Tony runs his hands down Steve’s back, he can feel his muscles, his bones, sturdy and strong. He wants to wrap his arms around him, squeeze until they’re whole, united, sharing one skin. He can’t do that, not really, but he can try for the next best thing.  
   
He drops his hand to Steve’s waistband, lower still, massages him. Steve breaks the kiss. “Wait,” he says, but it’s too late.  
   
“Oh,” Tony manages, blushing, retracting his hand. “It’s okay. It’s – you’re not feeling it. It’s fine, that’s fine.”  
   
“No,” Steve says desperately, “I’m just – it takes more time, now, that’s all.”  
   
Tony nods, steels himself, goes back in. The kiss has soured, it’s all teeth and self-conscious tongue and the passion isn’t there, clouded by the awkwardness hanging around them. He tries to palm Steve gently outside his jeans, but nothing is happening; Tony is hard, and he’s wet, but Steve is just… not.  
   
“Well, it’s okay,” Tony resolves, straightening. “We don’t have to do anything, I’m not feeling it anyway.”  
   
Tony thinks that might make it worse, because he obviously smells turned on, and he’s practically slicking down his thighs. Steve is flushed, from head to toe, and he just _reeks_ of embarrassment and stress. “It’s fine,” Tony tries to soothe, rubbing his arm, “hey, it’s okay. You’re stressed, you’re tired – “  
   
“It’s not fine,” Steve mutters, covering his head with his hand.  
   
“It _is._ It’s really common, it’s not even – we don’t need to do anything, let’s just sit and snuggle – “  
   
“At least let me – help you, I can do something nice for you – “  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony says, a little forcefully, “I’m fine.” The mood has somewhat dried up and shrivelled.  
   
“It’s not you,” Steve blurts, “it’s not because of you.”  
   
“It’s alright, I didn’t think it was,” Tony says gently.  
   
“I find you attractive. I find you – very attractive, obviously. I just – I don’t know, what with everything that’s happened. I’m just – tired,” Steve finishes, lamely. “I’m tired.”  
   
Tony thinks being locked up in a cage for a couple months might have something to do with it, too. “Snuggle me,” he insists, pulling him towards the couch. “I don’t need any of that, anyway.”  
   
Steve does, but he’s morose about it, nuzzling his nose in Tony’s hair. If Tony hadn’t been so attuned, he almost would have missed it, the brief pause, the indecision before Steve leaned into him. He frowns. “Steve?” He asks.  
   
“Yeah, honey?”  
   
“Do I smell like him? Is that it?”  
   
Tony can practically _hear_ his frown. “Smell like who?”  
   
“You know who. Him. Ross.”  
   
Steve is very still. _He’s debating whether to lie,_ Tony thinks, sadly.  
   
“Yeah,” Steve says, after a while. “You do, a little.”  
   
“A lot.”  
   
“Sure. But Tony, that’s not why – “  
   
“You know it’s not going to come out. I’m always going to smell of him, now.”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, “I know, sweetie.”  
   
“So, if it’s a problem…”  
   
Steve sighs. “Now _you’re_ not listening. That’s not the problem, okay? I promise, that isn’t the problem. You smelt like him – before. When we would meet together. I didn’t have a problem. _You_ are not the problem, stop trying to make yourself the problem. It’s me.”  
   
Tony shuffles into him. “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m upset, or angry, or anything like that. That’s all.”  
   
“Tony?”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Please drop it.”  
   
Tony does.  
   
   
It takes time to heal.  
   
Emotionally, sure. But physically too. Tony’s neck is still stiff, his arm all casted up. He’s tired, a lot of the time. Mostly content to lie on the couch and let himself be warmed by the sun.  
   
He knows Steve and Bucky are shielding him from the most of it. The press, and all the questions people need to ask him. They turn off the news when Tony enters the room, if only to spare him the awkwardness of having everything that happened be recounted in front of them; they know Tony doesn’t like to discuss it.  
   
Still, they can’t put off the questions forever. They can’t keep him, ensconced, cocooned, safe and oblivious. There are legal formalities, of course, and corrupt politicians to put away, for whom Tony’s testimony is crucial.  
   
Steve has begged off the FBI, the CIA, the WTO. He’s begged off journalists and psychiatrists and Government officials, representatives of Kellar’s government who want to bring Tony on for work, as a spokeman, as an idol.  
   
Tony hasn’t been interested in any of it. He’s decompressing. He needs time. Work will still exist when he’s done. But there is one call – just one – that he replies to. That he says, ‘happy to oblige, come right in’.  
   
“Of R – From Stark,” the lawyer says firmly. “We’re with the prosecution. Nothing major, we just need to ask you some questions, get your testimony. You have absolutely nothing to worry about here, it’s just important that we hear your side of the story. We feel like you might shed some light on all of this.”  
   
Tony pulls a weary face. “Of course,” he says, “it’s so – _God,_ just the thought. If I had known…”  
   
“Absolutely,” the omega agrees, resting her hand on Tony’s arm. They send omegas sometimes to interview other Os – it’s like a comfort thing, in case more fragile babies like Tony get scared by the big alpha officers. “No one blames you at all From Stark. Your testimony is absolutely crucial here.”  
   
They came expecting a victim, so that’s what Tony will give them. “Yeah,” he agrees readily, “anything I can to – “ he swallows, takes the omegas hand and squeezes. “The things he did to me,” he whispers, “he was so… perverted.”  
   
The omega winces. “I can’t begin to imagine what you went through. And to think, all those people who must have known…”  
   
“They were all terrified,” Tony lies. “No one wanted to cross him, and they were right not to. Him and Warren – “  
   
“Both of them?”  
   
“Both of them.”  
   
“So, starting easy, From Stark… is there anything about the nature of your relationship with Ross we need to know about? In the beginning, did you have any suspicions?”  
   
“Suspicions?”  
   
“About what he was doing to himself.”  
   
“No,” Tony says, honestly. “I – had no idea. If I had, I would have said something. It might have spared me a lot of trouble.”  
   
“Makes sense,” the alpha nods. “And during the course of your marriage – was he violent at all? Did he ever… transform?”  
   
“No. I never saw him transform before that – “ Tony makes himself shudder “night. But he – wasn’t violent at first. The closer he got to Warren…”  
   
“I see. You think Warren was a catalyst.”  
   
“I think – “ Tony looks at Steve, quickly, and then away. “He approached Steve on my birthday. Asked him to run for President, because he thought Steve had a shot at beating Warren.”  
   
The alpha stares at him. “Okay,” he says, “but then, he joined on as part of Warren’s team – “  
   
“Because he was hungry for power. He married me because he wanted my funds, he wanted my company, he wanted SI to lobby for him, and most importantly, because Ellis wanted me on-board. He wanted to get into Ellis’s good graces, you see, and – “ Tony hugs the blanket around himself. “And they threatened me. Said they would lock me in the Raft if I didn’t agree to the marriage, so they – marched me down the aisle.”  
   
The alpha sighs, rips a page from his notepad. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes. “Okay. So this goes further. Tell me about Ross, and then we’ll move onto what you know about Warren.”  
   
“He told me he married me for convenience. I think he was fond of me, but he never let me close. I just – cooked the dinners, I don’t know – I d-don’t – “  
   
“Shh,” the omega soothes, and Tony thinks if he actually was upset he might be grateful for it. “It’s alright. No one is blaming you, he tricked everyone, not just you.”  
   
Which is a fair point, but still, Tony doesn’t like being tricked.  
   
“When he announced for Warren, he didn’t ask my opinion. I just had to go along with it, even though I knew – what Warren did. What he was like.” Tony looks at Steve, and Steve looks back, nods slightly. “He tried to have me raped,” Tony says bluntly.  
   
The alpha stares. “He – tried to have you raped. _Ross.”_  
   
“That’s right. Before he declared for Warren, he thought maybe he could pin it on him and win Steve over. He sent three men.”  
   
“And where are these men now?!”  
   
“Dead.” Steve says stonily, and they leave it at that.  
   
“Well you – couldn’t be blamed,” the alpha says uneasily, quickly turning back to his papers. “Certainly, this is – more than we expected. Did Warren make any overt threats towards you?”  
   
“I overheard him talking with Ross. They were going to kill me and make it look like a suicide.”  
   
“And – From Stark, you said Ross _didn’t_ ever hurt you?!”  
   
“He didn’t, at the start.” Tony feels his scent shutter, senses Steve stiffen beside him. “I had a – lapse in judgement. Or – not a lapse, I just – Ross saw fit to punish me for an indiscretion. He locked me in a room for five weeks, and – he raped me, in that time.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” the alpha says, sincerely, “but I have to ask this: what was the indiscretion?”  
   
“I had been meeting with Steve. Not sleeping with him,” Tony lies, “just talking. Because I had been alone, Ross never spoke with me, he wouldn’t even sleep with me, really, and I was so lonely. And when Ross found out – he locked me in.”  
   
“Did he beat you?”  
   
Tony can’t lie. “No. He was rough with me, and when I went into heat – I asked him not to, because I didn’t want to bring a _child_ into this. But he ignored me, and he got aggressive. He had Warren and his wife come and – purify me,” Tony finishes, lamely.  
   
“What does it entail?” The omega asks, abruptly. “Sorry, I don’t want to – intrude. I just – I’ve heard about it, we’ve heard a few people mention it.”  
   
“Hold on,” the alpha frowns, “From Stark – we can try and push the rape claim, if you want. But – “  
   
“It’s shaky. I know,” Tony smiles, wretched. “I wouldn’t expect him to be charged. Just wanted someone to know.”  
   
Steve hadn’t known, because his hands have balled themselves into tight fists, his scent tipping towards fight. “And this – ceremony,” the alpha frowns, “what was that like? Were you hurt?”  
   
Tony opens his mouth, shuts it again. He side-eyes Steve. He’s chewing his fingernails, he realises absently, when did they get there?  
   
“Mr Rogers,” the omega is saying quietly, somewhere distant. “I think you’re making him uncomfortable.”  
   
“I’m not making him uncomfortable.”  
   
The omega smiles, all deference. “I’m not saying you’re the problem,” she assures, “just that sometimes it’s easier to admit things when there’s – no one close to you. Lessens the embarrassment.”  
   
“Tony? Do you want me to leave?”  
   
Tony frowns, feels phantom fingers on his lips. “What?” He frowns, distractedly.  
   
“ – ony. Tony. Do you want me to leave?”  
   
“I don’t – care,” Tony manages, looking up. “What’s wrong?”  
   
Steve is staring at him, looking a little hurt. “Don’t you want me here?”  
   
“Yes. No. I mean – you can come back, after. Right?” Tony asks, turning to the officers.  
   
“Sure,” the alpha agrees easily. “We just need to get some of this down first.”  
   
Tony watches Steve leave, but he still feels distant. Not right, like his brain is separate from his body. “Can I smoke?” He asks. “I don’t usually. I just – “ _want my hands to be busy._  
  
“Go ahead.”  
   
Tony stumbles to his feet and makes his way to the little bar, fumbles with Steve’s Marlboros. “She’s a bitch,” he says, lighting up. “Mary of Warren. She’s a – she-wolf.”  
   
“We’ve heard stories.”  
   
“It’s a like a – a ceremony. She got these brushes, like, wire haired,” Tony frowns, inhales, keeps standing because if he sits they’ll be able to see he’s shaking. “They put you in the bath and wash you, but it hurts because they’re rough. She took off bits of skin.”  
   
“I’m sorry,” the alpha says.  
   
“Yeah. And then they shave you, so everyone knows. Your head, your beard, other things. And you have to say ‘amen’ at all the right places, or she whips you. And from what I heard, she went around doing this to anyone whose alpha felt they needed to be purified. It’s humiliating. And – awful,” Tony says. “It hurts worse than other things because – you’re so open. Whatever,” he finishes, sucking on the end of his cigarette. “It’s done now.”  
   
“Do you think Ross was unstable when he agreed to it?” The omega asks, gently.  
   
“No, I think he was a coward.”  
   
“I agree,” the alpha says, but Tony ignores him. He can’t shake it from his mind now, any of it, not Ross, not Mary, not the bristles and Ross’s knot inside him while he cried –  
   
“Stark?” The omega says, gently, resting her hand on his wrist. Huh? When did she get so close, when –  
   
“I think that’s enough,” the alpha is saying quietly. “We have the bare bones, we can do the rest by phone, it’s no bother.”  
   
“No, what?” Tony says aimlessly. “I – I didn’t even offer you drinks – “  
   
The alpha smells awkward, hasty. “It’s fine,” he stresses, “really. You – did very well, From Stark. Gave us a lot to work with.”  
   
“You… don’t need anymore?”  
   
“If we do, we’ll be in touch. Thank you. Thanks. I can – show myself the way out.”  
   
Tony stares after him, practically tripping over his feet to leave. The omega nods, rests her hand on his shoulder; “Thank you,” she says, looking like she’s close to tears, what the fuck? “You were very brave.”  
   
“Brave? I – huh?”  
   
Steve had been waiting outside the study. “What’s going on?” He asks, “They finished?”  
   
“Yeah, sure. I guess?”  
   
Steve sniffs the air. “You smell sad,” he says, morose, like a puppy with a whacked nose. When Tony is sad, Steve is sad. “Did they say something to upset you? Should I talk to them, straighten some things out?”  
   
What he really means: ‘did they upset you? Should I go and disembowel them?’  
   
“No! No, no, I – don’t know what happened. They just wanted to know some stuff, you know. Basics. For the prosecution. But I they said they’ll do the rest by phone, so…”  
   
“Oh.” Steve relaxes. “They definitely didn’t upset you, then?”  
   
“No. And even if they did,” Tony smiles, “that wouldn’t mean anything, you know. You can’t hurt them because they make me sad.”  
   
“Want to bet?”  
   
“Steve.”  
   
“Okay, I’ll drop it.” He goes for a smile, then frowns. “Hey,” he says, gently. “You really seem out of it.”  
   
“I’m fine,” Tony snaps, batting away his hand from where it’s cupping his face. “I’m just tired. Need a nap. Takes a lot of out me, you know? Talking to people. Doing things.”  
   
Steve backs off. “Bucky’s out,” he says, knowingly. “But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you waited up in his bed.”  
   
Tony is grateful. For all their flaws, it never fails to astound him how much Steve wants this as much as he does. “Then I’ll wait there,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?”  
   
Steve smiles sadly. “No rush,” he says. “Take your time.”  
   
   
“Tony?” Bucky asks, fuzzy.  
   
He’s a shapeless blob at the foot of the bed. He’s sleeping, pillowed on his own arms, cold because he hasn’t got the blanket. He pushes his face against the mattress, shifts his shoulders, and settles back into something sleepy and slow.  
   
What is he doing at the foot of Bucky’s bed? Is this some kind of – is this a thing? Is this _allowed?_ It seems too intimate for something an omega does for fun, it seems too – intimate. That’s the right word.  
   
Carefully, he reaches over with one outstretched hand. “Tony?” He asks, whisper. “Tony? Hey, are you – are you sleeping?”  
   
“’Whuzzitt,” Tony mumbles, lifting his head just slightly. “Whuzz it happ’ning?”  
   
“It’s me. It’s – Bucky. You’re in my bed,” Bucky says, and then adds, “sweetheart.” Tony _is_ a sweetheart like this, all soft and tired. It’s not an impulse he feels normally, Tony is always so in control, but like this…  
   
“Oh.” Tony smacks his lips sleepily. “Iz’it – alright? Can I stay? I’m allowed?”  
   
Bucky blinks. “Sure, you’re allowed, but – Steve. Tony, what about – “  
   
Tony is already settling back down. “Steve doesn’t mind,” he murmurs, snuggling back against a fur comforter. “He told me I could do whatever I needed to make me happy.”  
   
“Oh.” A beat; “Well let me take off my running things, have a shower, and I’ll climb right in.”  
   
Tony gives a happy chirp, burrowing back down under the duvet and ensconcing himself beneath it like a particularly happy burrito. “The prosecution came by today,” he says, voice muffled by the blankets.  
   
“Yeah?” Bucky calls from the bathroom.  
   
“Uh huh.” He can practically _hear_ Tony poking his head out of the sheets. “They wanted me to talk about Warren, but I got distracted, and I think I made it awkward.”  
   
“Well? What did they say?”  
   
“Nothing,” Tony says sadly, scooping up the blanket, wrapping it around himself, padding to the bathroom and settling himself on the toilet. “They just got up and left. And then the O-Aid called me, like, a hero or something. Brave, that was it. She called me brave.”  
   
“You are brave,” Bucky says indulgently, the steam fogging his view of King Tony, wrapped in a duvet cloak, sitting on his porcelain throne. “They were probably just in awe of you.”  
   
“Probably,” Tony sighs, sadly.  
   
Bucky is half-way through shampooing his hair when he hears a shuffling. Then, Tony is pulling open the shower door, and just standing there, duvet discarded. “Uh,” Bucky manages, concious Tony has never really – _seen_ him naked before. “Are you alright?”  
   
“Steve has an issue,” Tony blurts. He’s also naked, but unlike Bucky, it doesn’t seem to bother him. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”  
   
“Okay,” Bucky says slowly.  
   
“You – have some shampoo. Just there.” Tony reaches forward, gently dabs it away with his thumb.  
   
“Thanks,” Bucky swallows, hard. “Uh – you said Steve had a problem?”  
   
“Yeah. And I think – you’re his friend. Well, more than that, now. And it’s not like he can hide it forever and – I need advice.”  
   
“Okay,” Bucky says again. “Do you… want to join me in the shower, or?”  
   
Tony frowns, blinks. “Shit,” he says, “I’m sorry. I disturbed you.”  
   
“No, it’s – no problem.”  
   
“Can I?”  
   
“Can you what?”  
   
“Can I… join you?”  
   
Bucky pushes open the door a little wider. “Hop on in,” he says.  
   
Tony, apparently, has a vendetta against towels. It’s one of those little things he gets to learn about him, all the things he doesn’t know yet. Somehow, he goes through four towels after one shower, and yet still remains soaking wet enough that he has the shake his head like a dog trying to get water out their fur. And even then, leaves a huge wet-patch in the middle of the bed.  
   
“Watch this,” Bucky says, taking a soft white towel and flipping his head, towelling it dry and then bundling it on his head. “Look at that. No water. No one’s drenched. Huh. Who would have thought you could use them to actually dry your hair?”  
   
Tony is already back in bed, blanket pulled up to his chest. “Great, you look like wedding cake, get over here.”  
   
“You said Steve had a problem?” Bucky continues, pulling on underwear. Their conversation had been – interrupted, in the shower.  
   
“Yeah.” Tony bites his lip. “A couple weeks ago – after you went for a run, I think. Me and Steve started to, you know. Have some fun.”  
   
“As you do.”  
   
“And we were really into it, at least – I was really into it. Uh. Steve wasn’t really – so into it. You know what I mean?”  
   
Bucky shuts the draw with a decided ‘thump’. “I get it. I think.”  
   
“I don’t really know what to do,” Tony admits, worrying his thumb. “Obie sometimes – you know, he couldn’t. But he’d just blame me.”  
   
“Why?” Bucky asks, out of morbid curiosity.  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder, still distracted. “I’m not pretty enough,” he says, on rote, like he doesn’t even need to think of the answer; clearly, well-prepared, and oft used. “My stomach isn’t flat enough since the baby. My pussy is too loose. But Steve,” Tony continues, frowning like the interlude never happened at all, “he says it’s not because I smell like Ross. And he never had that problem before. And _you_ don’t have that problem, so maybe – “  
   
“So maybe it’s not _your_ fault,” Bucky says gently, letting out his hair and tying it in a knot above his head.  
   
Tony shoots him a glare, irritated. “You’re supposed to be here, snuggling me.”  
   
“Yeesh, alright. Let it be known patience is not your strong suit.”  
   
Tony shuffles to make room, and then immediately lies his head on Bucky’s chest, making him drape his arm around his shoulders.  
   
“I just worry about him,” Tony says quietly. “I’m happy, I want him to be happy, too.”  
   
“I don’t think that’s something you can force.”  
   
The lapse into silence. Bucky lightly – so lightly, with just the tip of his nail – traces a spiral on the back of Tony’s neck.  
   
“I think,” Tony says drowsily, “if we could include him.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Like… not force him. I mean – not make him, if he can’t. But he’s our alpha. He’s the – boss.”  
   
“He is,” Bucky agrees, with a wry smile.  
   
“If he could just feel…” Tony sighs as Bucky smoothes his palm down the back of his neck. “If he could just feel like he’s in control. Like he owns us, but – without the pressure…”  
   
“I’m sure you’ll think of something, sweetheart,” Bucky says fondly, kissing the back of his head. “Why don’t you close your eyes and get snuggled?”  
   
Tony does. It feels good. And at some point, just before Bucky sleeps, he thinks Tony is right. They’re missing a third.  
   
   
It’s strange, trying to remember what Steve had liked before.  
   
Blue lingerie. That had been a huge deal, for a while. Lacy and white-fringed, with pearls, and his hair all moussed. Tony hasn’t – tried to look good in a long time. He still feels stretched thin, like transplanted skin.  
   
Still, when he told Bucky his idea, he’d suggested wearing nothing at all. “Go natural,” he’d said. “No gimmicks. Inspire him.”  
   
So that’s how Tony ended up in bed, legs spread, head resting on Bucky’s lap, letting himself be petted. They wait until Steve is home, then call him up their wide staircase.  
   
“Hi Steve,” Tony says, blinking slowly, smiling. “Come sit.”  
   
“What – what is this?”  
   
“Tony had an idea,” Bucky explains. “There’s something he’d like to try. That he’d – like you to do for him. And us.”  
   
“He roped you into this?!”  
   
“Sit,” Tony sighs. “The chair’s all yours. Tell him how to fuck me, Steve.”  
   
He can practically see Steve’s eyes bulging out his head. “ _What?”_  
   
“Tell him how to fuck me. Bucky’s never done it before. He needs help. And you know me so well, and you’re alpha. You need to show him right.”  
   
“What should I do to him?” Bucky asks, softly stroking Tony’s hair.  
   
“Jesus. I – I don’t know. Do whatever you want,” Steve blusters, hands gripping the arms of the chair.  
   
Tony feels sleepy. “You have to,” he says, “you’re our alpha.”  
   
“Bucky is more than capable – “  
   
“Steve,” Bucky says, pointedly. “Listen to the omega. You’re _our_ alpha. Understand?”  
   
Steve swallows. Tony hopes they haven’t pushed him too far, or upset him – he just wants to make it good for him, in a way where he’ll understand that _he’s_ in charge, no matter what. “Ah – Christ,” Steve mutters, hiding his face, like he’s ashamed.  
   
“Tony wants it,” Bucky says, “don’t you Tony?”  
   
“I really do,” Tony says drowsily, yelping when Bucky gives him a small swat on his left ass-cheek.  
   
“I don’t know – how to,” Steve mutters into his hand. “I don’t want to tell you – “  
   
“We _want_ you to tell us,” Bucky says, exasperated. “We want you to be a part, don’t you understand?”  
   
“It’s pity,” Steve chokes.  
   
“It’s love,” Bucky snaps back. “You think either of us give a shit you can’t get it up? Neither could I, a year ago. Stress fucks you over, and I don’t know what they did to you in the Raft – “ Steve flinches – “but we’re not going to let you beat yourself up over it. Do you want to be our alpha?”  
   
“Bucky,” Steve says, croaky, “of course I do.”  
   
“Then tell me how to fuck him. Tell me how he likes it. It doesn’t matter if you can’t join in – if not today, then tomorrow, and if not then, the day after that. But we’re not going to let you – slink away. Or not be a part of this, somehow. Because we love you. And we want you, no matter what.”  
   
“S’true, Steve,” Tony sighs, eyes half-lidded.  
   
Steve seems to resolve himself. “I’m not your master,” he says. “You don’t want to do something, you say.”  
   
“Don’t suggest anything we wouldn’t want to do,” Bucky shoots back.  
   
“It gets too much you say ‘Thaddeus’, understand?”  
   
Tony laughs, giggles. “Oh, that’s too bad,” he says. “That’s just _mean.”_  
   
“It’s not supposed to be a joke. It’s serious. If he oversteps, if I overstep – “  
   
“You know,” Tony grunts, shaking off Bucky’s hand and rolling onto his belly, “I still feel so dirty. From what he did to me,” he adds, innocently, working his knees beneath him and lifting his hips. “And so, what I’d _really_ like, more than anything, would be if _someone_ would just – fuck his scent away. Hard. Please.”  
   
He looks over his shoulder, directly at Steve. His scent goes – clammy. Like he’s embarrassed, but hot at the same time. “You want that?” He asks. “You want Bucky to make you feel nice and dirty?”  
   
Tony rolls his head back to Bucky, looks up at him from beneath hooded eyes. “Mmm hmm,” he manages, swallowing hard.  
   
“Has Bucky ever fucked you before, Tony? It’s alright, you can be honest, both of you, I won’t be mad.”  
   
“Never,” Tony croaks, truthfully.  
   
“No,” Bucky agrees.  
   
“Good. That’s good. So today will be your first time together, huh?”  
   
Tony butts his brow against Bucky’s knee, smiles, watery. “Yes,” Bucky says, smiling down at him, cupping the back of his head. “Our first time.”  
   
“Well – maybe you could get Tony warmed up some, yeah Buck?”  
   
Steve’s voice is rough, like a cat’s tongue, gravelly, Brooklyn-esque. Tony stretches his thighs, wider, arches his back; he knows Steve can see his hole, and the stretch feels good, satisfying, like he’s pulling muscles that haven’t been pulled in a long time.  
   
“What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks, husky.  
   
“Put – put your mouth on his hole,” Steve says, as if indecisive. “Make him nice and wet.”  
   
Tony’s arms and legs feel all trembly, he’s light-headed, giddy. Bucky’s fingers arouse him, just the act of them touching him in places where he should not be touched, moving him round, positioning him so he faces Steve, ass presented behind, open and accessible to Bucky’s soft, hot tongue.  
   
He thinks it must show on his face, because Steve’s scent goes sticky with deep lust. “Oh,” Tony sighs.  
   
Bucky’s stubble is rough, but his mouth is wet, and by the end Tony is sopping, slickened with saliva and his own secretions, his inner thighs soaked. It was never like this with Ross. Not once did he ever, _ever,_ consider making his disgusting little mouth do anything close to giving Tony pleasure –  
   
“Open him,” Steve says quietly, although Tony’s kinda stopped listening. “Use your thumbs. Pull him open, look inside.”  
   
Bucky does. The stretch is sublime; he’s already loose, so it goes nice and easy, but just being used in that way – ugh, finally. Like exercising a muscle that hasn’t been exercised in a long, long time. “Two fingers,” Steve orders. “When he starts to moan, you use three until he comes. Don’t touch his cock.”  
   
It’s slow-building, intense. Tony focuses on it; he ignores Steve’s face, and Bucky’s fingers, and both their gentle words. He focuses on the pleasure, blooming in his lower belly, building, building, like a wave, a crescendo. It seems to last too long, longer than any orgasm has any right to be, but he loses himself in it, loses track, spills on the duvet and moans for them, high and breathy, face twisted in rapture.  
   
No one rubs his face in it. No one grabs his hair and insists he suck them off, or tells him what a _good boy_ he is for coming like that for his alpha, how much this means he must want to please them. No one slaps his ass, or chokes him, or rubs his spend all over his face to humiliate him more than he’s already been humiliated.  
   
Instead, Steve tells Bucky to turn him over onto his back, to lightly kiss his inner thighs, to play with his nipples, to slide inside him and fuck him at his own pace while Tony is still so blissed out, just ‘uh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’ at Bucky’s cock inside him, nice and thick and real. His spend is still warm beneath his back, a wet patch on their blanket, but it doesn’t matter. And Bucky comes when Steve tells him to come, locking inside Tony and triggering more aftershocks, small, intense little mini-orgasms that keep him clenching and clenching and – clenching, on Bucky’s knot inside him, forcing the last of his seed into Tony’s belly.  
   
Bucky is panting, arms bracketing Tony’s head. His hair has come loose; it’s tickling Tony’s cheek. He can’t help himself, staring up at him like this – he cups his face, like it’s the first time he’s ever seen his face, lifts his head to kiss him once, softly, just on the lips.  
   
Then Steve is taking his wrists, pinning them gently by his head. _More?_ Tony thinks drowsily, sweetly, offering up his mouth for Steve. He does kiss him, sure; but his hands slip lower, tenderly rub circles along his nipples, push under his head to stroke the back of his neck.  
   
 _Oh._ Tony moans, more like a sigh with bite, and rubs his body against the sheets, Bucky still tight inside him. Now, he feels like he’s being petted all over, a soft, full-bodied orgasm that keeps coming, and coming, and coming.  
   
“Good for you?” Tony mumbles, not even sure which alpha he’s talking to, to be perfectly honest.  
   
“The best,” Steve says, gently, kissing his brow.  
   
“Ahh,” Tony sighs, a caricature of contentment. Bucky is loosening, sucking on his nipple lightly, slipping out. “Bed now?”  
   
“It’s a bit sticky,” Bucky says, voice all croaking, scenting like _goodfuckgoodfuck_ and _lovelovelove._ “We can move to your nest?”  
   
Nuh-uh. Tony wants it here. He wants Steve on one side and Bucky on the other. He wants to be held. He wants to feel so safe, like the world has stopped just for him, and them, and the little paradise they’ve created.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Snuggles!
> 
> Opinions would be nice. We have maybe... one or two chapters left. Weird. Seriously, I really want to know what you think about how this relationship is shaping up, and what you want me to wrap up in the last few chapters.
> 
> [Support Me on Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/G2G0DLLE)


End file.
